Intemperance
by Oleander's One
Summary: The Architect fled north and so must the Warden. AU, humor, angst, multiple origins, M for language and other adult activities. Posting suspended.
1. A Shot in the Dark

**A Shot in the Dark**

"I thought I might find you up here." Cyrion Tabris draped a tattered, much-mended blanket across his daughter's shoulders and stood at her side, looking out over the courtyard of Vigil's Keep. Wisps of her wavy brown hair kept escaping its braid in the biting wind, whipping her face and neck.

"I cannot believe that you used up space in your only trunk to tote this threadbare old thing here from Denerim." Myr ran her fingertips down the strip of soft, frayed edging. "Thank you, Father."

"I won't tell anyone that the Warden-Commander still likes her childhood blanket, you need not worry."

"I appreciate that." She smiled and fell silent, watching the soldiers walk their patrol patterns below.

"You're leaving again, aren't you?" Cyrion asked after a time.

"Yes. Soon."

"The Architect?"

She nodded slowly.

"Didn't you tell me that the First Warden was going to set the Free Marches Wardens to find him, as he was likely to flee north?"

Myr grimaced. "Stroud seems to think that the Architect is just a particularly strong emissary. That blockhead doesn't have the imagination to deal with something as different or powerful as the Architect, and he'll tear Stroud apart. Or worse."

"I'm coming with you."

"No."

"I don't mean that I'm going to play aging hero and follow you into the Deep Roads. With the money you've given me and the sale of the house in Denerim, I'll rent a small flat in Ansburg."

"It has my blood, Father; you cannot be anywhere within a hundred miles of me and not be in danger. You're a liability," she said in a flat voice.

Cyrion flinched but didn't back down. "You told me that the Architect avoids populated areas. He wouldn't even come to the Vigil, but sent a Disciple."

"Yes, but..."

He turned suddenly and gripped her shoulders. "When I didn't hear anything for a month after Duncan took you away from me, it almost killed me. You nearly died fighting the Archdemon, and I had two weeks of watching you recover before you were gone to Amaranthine. You survived horrors that no one should ever have to face to save the city and the fortress, and most of it you still won't discuss with me. The Vigil wasn't safe for civilians until a month ago; now I'm here and you're leaving again."

"It's my duty, Father. You know that."

"I do." His hands slowly relaxed and he smiled sadly. "I still haven't learned to let go, not entirely."

"You'd hardly be my father if you had." Myr thought for a moment. "Give me two months to follow my leads. If it looks like I will be away from Ferelden longer than that and if..._if_ the situation seems stable, we can discuss it again."

"That's the best I'm going to get from you, my Myraene?"

"I am my father's daughter."

"And your mother's. You come by your stubbornness honestly..."

Myr leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. "I'll always be your little girl, Father," she said softly.

"...as you do your fine grasp of manipulation." He pushed her towards the stairwell. "I'm freezing out here."

"So much for the Moment."

oOo

There was a regularity and predictability to the lost dwarven thaigs and the Deep Roads that connected one with another, right down to the tainted flora that prowled them. The halls and tunnels that the small group of Wardens and Legionnaires had been exploring for a week lay under the mapped Roads, and were like none Myr had ever seen.

They mapped their path through abandoned homes, markets and half-fallen temples to ancient, unknown dwarven gods as best they could. It was her fellow Warden Denel's opinion that their route had taken them through only the outskirts of a much larger city, one that dwarfed even Orzammar. The alien architecture and the evidence of a lost dwarven pantheon interested Myr as much as it obviously disturbed her comrades, and they spoke little.

Once quit of the thaig, they followed a darkspawn tunnel to a series of regular shafts and small rooms; a mine, one that they hoped led back to the mapped Roads. Now back on more familiar ground, Myr called a longer rest. She watched as Sigrun picked at her armor, poked rocks around on the floor with her boot and mumbled to herself. Sigrun finally swore and pitched her piece of jerky at the floor, where it came to a stop next to the dozing Mouse, who gobbled it down.

"Doesn't that sodding dog do anything but eat, sleep or pretend to sleep?" Myr continued eating silently until the normally cheerful Sigrun shook herself and relaxed slightly. "Sorry, mutt."

Mouse opened one eye long enough to snuffle in her direction briefly, then closed it again.

"Was that 'I accept your apology' or 'you're next on the menu, short girl'?"

"Sometimes I fail Mabari; they seem to have quite a lexicon," Myr replied with a yawn. "But I suspect it was 'thanks for the snack'."

Sigrun sighed and some of the tension seemed to leave her. "Sorry, Commander. That place...it just seemed wrong, and I don't know why. I should be fascinated; I mean, an entire dwarven civilization that no one even knew existed. I should be happy that for the first time in a year I'm having nightmares of evil, pulsing red lyrium and not..." She shivered and fell silent.

Ever since Kal'Hirol, Sigrun's taint-fueled nightmares had been of the writhing, vomit-smeared tentacles and bloated, misshapen bodies of the broodmothers. Traumatized by the sight of her Legionnaire sisters turned into huge, darkspawn-birthing horrors, it had taken every shred of her courage to once again descend into the Deep Roads.

Myr almost envied Sigrun the respite. The Architect's slurred, terribly gentle voice had supplanted Urthemiel's mad screams in Myr's post-Blight nightmares; night after night of skeletal, long-taloned fingers that smelled of decay and ink, thin knives and frigid iron manacles.

Myr shook her head to clear the images. "I don't blame you. I had something of the same experience in some ruins near a Dalish camp."

"When Duncan recruited Aene, right? I know you don't like to talk about the Blight, but if you ever change your mind, I'll listen."

"Thanks, Sig. I may take you up on that." She stretched and stood, her desire for sleep gone for the moment. "You might as well get some rest; I'll take the watch."

oOo

The mining tunnels continued some miles until one by one they ended in blockages. Eventually they found a small darkspawn tunnel that bypassed the collapsed mineshafts, but instead of rejoining the Deep Roads, it pushed southeast for a mile or more, emptying into a small hall. The door was blocked by several large stones.

"Why block the door on this side?" Sigrun wondered aloud. "I mean, the 'spawn don't get frightened off by other underground creatures, I don't th..." She broke off and eyed the door warily.

Myr sighed. "You had to say it. You couldn't just let it lie."

The Legionnaire brothers, Rickar and Rized, looked at each other in confusion. Denel only shook his head and nodded to the boulders. "They won't move themselves."

Once the stone was moved, Myr reached for the latch, only to be stopped by a hand on her gauntlet.

"A moment, Commander." Denel closed his eyes, concentrating. He had the finest Taint sense of any Warden that Myr had yet met. Myr found herself holding her breath as he listened. "South...west. Under a mile. A strong force, but no ogres. Maybe three dozen?" He opened his eyes, turned back to the door and froze. "How...a Warden!"

At her word, he pulled open the door and was running, dodging through doors and around broken lyrium columns and rocks with the others in close pursuit. Quickly enough the sound of combat could be heard in the distance; they followed the tunnel to where it opened into another mining hub. Rough, timber-framed shafts led off in several directions from the large natural cavern. Darkspawn filled two of them, held somewhat at bay by gouts of flame, crossbow fire, a russet mabari and a white-haired elf wielding an enormous greatsword. Two mages and a dwarf ranged in a rough semi-circle around a human boy with sword still in hand, struggling feebly to rise.

"Split up. Denel, Mouse, to the elf. Rized, Rickar, Sigrun, the Mabari." Myr disappeared into the shadows.

oOo

The fight was short but brutal; Myr watched silently as Anders levered his way out from underneath an enormous hurlock, then set to healing a gash along the elven warrior's forearm. The elf gritted his teeth as the cut knit together cleanly, then growled and waved the healer off when Anders would have turned his attention to the other injuries. "I need no further attention, mage. See to the others."

Finally Anders finished and turned to face her somewhat reluctantly. "Myr! This is a surprise. I thought you were planning to return to Amaranthine after you left Weisshaupt. Your timing is excellent," he chuckled nervously.

"Anders, these are the Wardens you were hoping to find? The ones who can help Carver?" The other mage demanded anxiously.

"Myr, this is Perren Hawke. His brother Carver is..."

"Tainted; I can see that." Myr addressed the older brother. "Becoming a Warden isn't a reprieve from death, and we don't take recruits out of charity, as Anders should have..."

"No charity needed," Perren interrupted angrily. "Carver is a fine warrior; the Wardens would be lucky to have him. He'll _die_ without aid."

"There is a very good chance that he will die even with it. Many fine warriors do," Myr said quietly.

"I wouldn't have suggested this if I didn't think that Carver would make an excellent Warden, Myr."

She met Anders' gaze but didn't respond; despite her strong opinions about his judgment and the recent lapses of same, they were not alone. The stare must have been enough; he looked away and flushed. She turned to gaze at Carver for some time, finally addressing him directly. "Wardens lead bloody, painful, often brutally short lives. There are those who have come to regret their choice, even where death had been the only alternative."

"I had thought that this expedition might help get me into the guards, or maybe even the templars." Carver coughed raggedly and looked away from the surprise and disappointment on his brother's face. "But the Wardens … I don't want to die, but I'd rather die fighting darkspawn than coughing out my life in the darkness, never having had the opportunity."

Myr nodded thoughtfully, then turned to the Legionnaires. "Rized, Rickar, could you accompany Ser Hawke and his companions to the chamber beyond the blocked door? I would advise making camp; it will be several hours."

"Absolutely not! I'm staying right here..." Perren blustered.

"Warden rituals are secret, Hawke," Anders explained. "Trust Myr; she is the very best hope for Carver now."

"Maker!" Carver swore weakly, "Just go with them, Perren. This isn't something you can fix."

"Carver." Perren still hesitated.

"I know, alright? Just...I know."

Perren gazed at his brother for a long moment, nodded slowly and followed the others. Anders watched him leave, then turned back to the others. "What can I..."

"The Commander told you to go with the Legionnaires, Anders," Denel replied coldly.

"I'm still a Warden, Denel. You need a mage for the mixture, anyway."

"We have everything we need, and you were the one who decided that he wasn't a Warden anymore. Go with the others."

Anger flashed on the mage's face, only to drain away into pained loss. "I'm not asking any of you to understand or support my choice, but you're still my friends. Myr, please."

"Don't call me friend," Myr replied in a low, harsh whisper without pausing in her preparations. "Get out of my sight."

"You better go with the others, Anders," Sigrun urged sadly, when he hesitated. Finally he turned and followed the others.

Myr made a careful slice into the neck of a fallen hurlock and caught the blood in a dented tin cup. Adding the Joining mixture, she turned to Carver. Disgust twisted his features; the revolted expression reminding her so strongly of that of Ser Jory that she found herself glad that he was weak with Taint. She had never been in the position of needing to cut down a prospective recruit and had never fully reconciled herself to the prior Warden-Commander's actions at Ostagar. Her recent travel to Weisshaupt and second thoughts regarding some of the Grey Warden precepts made the whole question a far murkier one. She waited silently for the inevitable response.

"Darkspawn blood. I need to drink darkspawn blood." Carver swallowed thickly. "That's..._monstrous_."

"It's a monstrous business, boy," Denel replied as he and Sigrun helped Carver into a semi-reclining position against the wall.

"Wardens take the Taint into themselves in order to master it, to make themselves immune to it and to give them power to fight the darkspawn," Myr explained.

"Andraste's tits! Aren't I Tainted enough already?"

Myr hastily turned her surprised laugh into a cough. Sigrun was not so restrained; she chuckled merrily and gave Carver a ringing hit on his armored shoulder. "You'll do all right, boy."

Quickly sobered by the heavy scents of blood and lyrium rising from the cup in her hands, Myr shot the grinning dwarf a quelling look as she knelt in front of their recruit. "There will be a great deal to share with you later, Carver, but do you have more questions before we proceed?"

His eyes fell again to the cup in Myr's hands and opened his mouth, then obviously changed his mind. "I suppose I don't. I'm sure you'll tell me more after...I mean if..."

She nodded and held up the battered cup with both hands. "We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Denel, if you would?"

"Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we will join you."

"From this moment on, Carver Hawke, you are a Grey Warden." Myr handed the cup to the young man, who drank deeply, then shuddered with revulsion, blindly shoving the cup away. He coughed wetly once, then slumped bonelessly against the wall.

"Tough kid." Denel nodded approvingly.

"At least he didn't have far to fall." Sigrun smiled as she checked his eyes and pulse. "Maybe we should do all of our Joinings on the floor."

oOo

"It's been far too long. I'm going back." Perren paced restlessly in the small room.

Anders caught at his arm. "You can't do that, Hawke. The Warden rituals are secret for a reason. If you respect your brother's wishes, then you will wait."

Perren ripped his arm out of Anders' grip. "Tell me what's happening in there, Anders. What ritual can possibly take three hours?"

"I can't, Hawke. I made vows as a Warden."

"You left the Wardens, you said so yourself."

"That doesn't mean..."

"Bugger that." The tall mage marched past the startled Legionnaires, yanking the door open in a squeal of rusty hinges. Approaching from the opposite direction, Myr looked up at the tall man calmly.

Perren tensed. "My brother..."

"Is alive, Ser Hawke, and now a Grey Warden. If not precisely well, he is doing the best that can be expected at the moment."

He relaxed all at once, his arms falling to his sides. "Warden, I won't bother to try to defend my anger; I expect you see it often enough in these circumstances. We lost our sister fleeing Ferelden, you see, and my brother will tell you that I've been rather overbearingly protective since. He's a grown man and a fine warrior, but..." He shrugged helplessly.

"The anger and anxiety is quite natural, Ser Hawke; you needn't justify it to me." Myr shook her head. "My own father was less temperate than you in his opinion of my treatment at the hands of then-Commander Duncan, and he is the gentlest man I know. He didn't learn for several weeks that I had even survived. If I went by strict procedure, it would have been the same for you and your brother; I would have left with your brother and notified you of his status by messenger. I have found that it is not a procedure to which I can adhere."

"Then I am doubly humbled, Warden. Please accept my profound thanks."

"They are unneeded but appreciated, Ser Hawke." She offered the man her hand, which he engulfed in both of his.

"My friends call me Hawke, dear lady." He flashed her a charming smile that hinted of a nature very different that had been shown in these unusual circumstances.

"His friends call him many things," the blond dwarf said with a smirk.

oOo

"I can't believe I'm hungry," Carver muttered to Sigrun as she passed him a plate heaped with roasted nug, cheese and dried fruit. "Half of me wants to puke and the other to shove food down my gullet as fast as humanly possible."

"As fast as Wardenly possible," she corrected, starting on her own ample portion. "We call it the Hunger. It's pretty bad the first few months; I ate everything I could put my hands on, even Nathaniel's cooking. It'll taper off a bit, but you learn pretty quick never to go anywhere without some dried apples and hardtack in your pack. I got so hungry when we got trapped in the Fade a year and a half ago that I came close to chopping up Anders for steaks. But you can tell he'd be stringy; just look at him."

Carver choked and she pounded him on the back until he could swallow properly. "That makes him almost tolerable," he wheezed, "knowing how close he came to cutlets. Well, that and the thought that shortly I won't ever have to lay eyes on him again."

"Aw, Anders is a sweetheart. Or he was."

"Hmm."

"When you're done flirting, Carver?" Perren interrupted. "I thought some introductions might be handy, now that we are all have food and drink at hand. You know Anders of course, Myr, and as you've spent more than an hour in my brother's presence, I daresay you know everything there is to know about him."

"Thanks for that," Carver grumbled around a mouthful of cheese.

Myr gestured to the dwarven Wardens and Legionnaires in turn. "Sigrun and Denel, Senior Wardens and also of the Legion of the Dead, as are our colleagues Rickar and Rized."

"The Legion of the Dead?"

"Symbolic death, Hawke," the blond dwarf explained with a respectful nod in their direction.

"We are dead to our former lives and our kin, to free ourselves from fear and fight the darkspawn where they nest in the Deep Roads, their home between the Blights of the surface," Denel added.

"I...see. Well met, all." Perren gestured at the white-haired elf to his right.

"Fenris," the warrior said shortly and inclined his head a fraction.

The blond dwarf managed a graceful half-bow from his place on the floor and smiled winningly. "Varric Tethras at your service, Grey Wardens. Please feel free to unburden yourselves of any stray adventures that might be cluttering your memories, haunting your dreams..."

"Planning a new serial?" Perren asked.

"If I'm writing about them I'm not writing about you, Hawke."

"You can find Varric at the Hanged Man in Kirkwall, Wardens. That's the Hanged Man, in Lowtown near the Bazaar. Always ready with a willing ear, our friend Varric." Perren grinned.

Myr nodded to the huge hound half-sprawled across her. "This is Mouse. Your Mabari is a lovely girl; what's her name?"

Stuffed with dinner, the female was twitching in her sleep, drooling on the mage's threadbare breeches. "Poor Fidget, she misses Ferelden. Plenty of open fields and overrun with fat rabbits."

"My large man here has been known to thin those ranks on occasion."

"I thought you sounded Fereldan. How did you come to join the Wardens here in the Free Marches?"

"Myr isn't assigned here, Hawke," Anders laughed. "You didn't recognize the name? This is Myraene Tabris, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden."

"The Warden-Com...the Hero of Ferelden?" He gaped.

"That's trash." Myr waved it off. "The whole idea that it was one indispensable person that ended the Blight and saved Amaranthine is one of the more aggressively idiotic notions to come of that time. There is not one of my Wardens or companions who wasn't vital to our successes, to say nothing of the human armies and nobles, the elves, the mages, the dwarves. I didn't even kill the Archdemon; that was Loghain Mac Tir, and he died doing it."

"You led us, Commander. No one else could have put everything in motion," Denel said quietly.

"Says the warleader-prince." Myr smirked.

"You're Denel _Aeducan_? You're dead!" Varric dove for his pack so quickly half his meal hit the floor next to Fidget, who woke long enough to gobble it down. He pulled out a thick ledger, ink and several quills.

"So I am, but by my own hand, not that of my lying, back-stabbing brother, much to his dismay."

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "Now that has a familiar ring."

"Bartrand only entombed his own brother and companions in an ancient crypt to swipe a shitty idol. If Denel here is telling the truth, the man sitting on the throne of Orzammar killed one brother, blamed the other and slaughtered his family's loyal advisor."

"And his advisor's entire House," Rized added helpfully.

"And poisoned his father," Denel finished in a hollow voice.

"I...hadn't heard that last. So you, Messere Tabris, put this man on the throne knowing what he was. That's an interesting twist even for dwarven politics. Didn't your fellow Warden object?" Varric asked, scribbling furiously.

"My fellow Warden would be the one who advised me to give the crown to his brother. It was not an easy choice; there were few enough of those during the Blight." Myr heard the bleak tone seeping into her voice and shook her head slightly, dismissing the memory.

"Harrowmont would have been a disaster as king; that hidebound, weak, caste-glazed dolt," Denel stated flatly. "He told me once that as a leader, he would rather be known as kind than strong."

"And this man was the right hand to a king?" Fenris shook his head in disbelief.

"Would have been Orzammar's new king, Ser Fenris, had Myr not taken my advice."

"But of course. Once you start down the road of kindness, who can guess where that will lead? Social harmony? Freedom? Maker forfend!" Anders cried in mock terror.

"Actually, Blondie, our grim new friend has the right of it; Harrowmont wouldn't have survived the week, and the government would have been in shambles," Varric said. "From everything my brother told me, Orzammar runs on strength of arms, strength of alliances and more than occasionally, the strength of its poisons."

"It is also a closed society in decline, and needs fundamental change to survive. The birthrate has been falling for centuries, they are chronically short of competent soldiers and craftspeople, and are wasting their best resource which is, ironically, the solution to the first two problems." Denel gestured to Sigrun and the young dwarven brothers. "It needs a strong leader to drive the necessary changes, and if that leader is my patricidal, fratricidal, lying asp of a brother, then..." He shrugged.

"Whatever it takes, then?" Carver demanded. "The end justifies any means, and the strongest gets to set the terms?"

"Carver, I don't know an outsider could really understand the situation..." Perren began in a conciliatory tone.

"That doesn't mean that the recruit didn't raise a very important point, Ser Hawke," Myr pointed out.

"I did? I mean...you were saying, Commander?"

She turned to face him. "We do what we must to defeat the darkspawn, Carver. You said earlier that it means something to be a Warden, and you are correct. It means that everything is secondary to that one goal. Ideally, we keep ourselves apolitical..." Anders scoffed loudly but looked away before Myr could meet his eye. "As you might gather from Anders' reaction, that ideal is arguably honored more in the breach than the observance. In Orzammar, we required the king's authority to honor the Grey Warden treaty and commit their forces to the war, but King Endrin had died..."

"Commander," Denel interrupted.

"...had been murdered weeks before our arrival. To break the stalemate and achieve our end, we were forced to intervene, to elevate a murderer to lead a nation."

"Do you regret it?" Carver asked.

She had asked herself the question more often than she cared to remember. "There are things I regret more and things I regret less."

"That's not an answer, Myr," Anders said, anger still coloring his voice.

"No, it's really not."

oOo

A week of steady marching broken only rarely by small bands of darkspawn or spiders brought them to a crossroads near the surface.

"This is as far as we go, Commander." Rickar bowed slightly to Myr and nodded to the other Wardens. "If Rized and I find the path we seek, we will see that word gets to the Wardens."

"_Atrast Tunsha_ Rickar, Rized. You have my thanks." Myr bowed in turn.

"_Atrast Tunsha_, Commander; Brother, Sister. _Valos Atredum_." Rized followed his brother back the way they came.

"What was all that about?" Carver asked when they had left. "They're not going back down in to the Deep Roads. Isn't that a little suicidal?"

"The whole Legion of the Dead thing hasn't really sunk in yet, has it Brother?" Anders smirked.

"Stuff it, Magey."

The Breach opened onto a nondescript area of the Vimmark foothills northwest of Kirkwall. "We'll need to return and seal all but this one entrance if we can." Myr looked around to gauge the time and consulted her surface maps.

Denel nodded. "My brother will send parties as soon as he hears about the thaig. I think it may be wise to send word to Weisshaupt before that happens, Commander. The Warden mages should probably investigate before Bhelen's scav—I mean historians—cart away the entire thaig."

oOo

Three days brought them to the outskirts of Kirkwall, and the Hightown gates. A flash of Varric's Guild papers and several smooth lies, and they were admitted without Myr having to announce her identity. She turned to the Hawke brothers as they reached the bottom of the stairs to Lowtown. "Carver, we'll be leaving for Ferelden immediately. You will be training at Soldier's Peak, under one of my Seniors, Aene Mahariel."

"What do you mean, Ferelden? Why can't Carver join the Marcher Wardens at Ansburg?" Hawke demanded.

"Carver is a Fereldan Warden, Ser Hawke, and he will be joining the Wardens in Ferelden," Myr replied calmly.

"This is..."

"Maker! Would you just shut up, Perren?" Carver turned on his brother angrily.

"I was only..."

"Well don't. Kirkwall is Mother's life, and it's becoming yours, I get it. Now you need to leave me to mine. I'm a Warden now; if I can keep one darkspawn from crushing the life out of one girl like Bethany, maybe I can feel like I've accomplished something. Maybe I can sleep without hearing her shrieks in my nightmares."

"Carver."

The young man held up his hand, regaining some of his lost temper. "Perren, I have to find out who I am besides your little brother."

Perren finally nodded, looking tired and older than his years. "Please see Mother before you go?"

Carver looked to Myr, who nodded. "We'll arrange for the ship. Varric said he can find one that will take us on relatively short notice. Meet us in that Hanging Man tavern the day after tomorrow."

Carver laughed. "The Hanged Man; can't say as I'll miss the Mystery Meat. Maybe the ale. Fereldan brewers don't use enough rodent."

Varric led them through the bustling Lowtown market. "There should be rooms available, Wardens. We'll make the arrangements for the ship tomorrow and perhaps have time for a hand or two of diamondback."

"Cards?" Sigrun said, her eyes innocently wide. "I'm not really very good. I hope I won't bore everyone, asking questions."

Varric gazed at her for a moment and shrugged, resigned. "Just leave me enough for rent, if you don't mind? Bianca would miss Norah terribly."

"See, this would be why I prefer playing cards with humans." Sigrun laughed. "Poor Anders was down to selling the clothes off his back by the time he caught on."

"I miss my old robes." Anders sighed.

"I did you a favor. That ratty old dress didn't do anything for your legs."

"And on that note, Wardens, we'll entrust you to Varric's care and see you the day after next." The brothers left Myr and the others at the tavern door. Perren stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Don't let the bedbugs bite. Really."


	2. Toll of the Sea

_Many thanks to those reading and reviewing. Special thanks to my remarkable beta, mille libri, for some great suggestions and for fixing my approximately 16,237 punctuation and grammar errors._

**Toll of the Sea**

"My uncle says sea sickness is all in your mind."

Carver hesitantly joined Myr at the starboard rail where she stood braced, head in hand, leaning out over the gunwales of the small merchant ship she had hired to take them from Kirkwall to Amaranthine.

"Your uncle was a sailor, Carver? I thought you said the Amells were nobles."

"They were, although Gamlen pissed all that away years ago. But no, he wasn't a sailor. Spends a lot of time in grotty little pubs in the Docks district, though. Has opinions on most things; stupid ones, mostly."

Myr chuckled briefly, then winced and pressed a hand to her stomach. "Oh dear." She looked out at the rough cliffs of Highever, slowly passing. "I knew another Amell; Delia, from the Circle Tower."

"Our cousin a couple times removed, I guess. Our family is lousy with mages." He flushed slightly at her glance. "I suppose that didn't sound very nice considering she's dead. She and Bethy."

Myr tried to concentrate on the clean smell of the wind and the plaintive calls of the gulls overhead, rather than the heavy scents of beef and ale rising from below. Across the deck, Mouse looked torn between following the rich scents and staying where he was, paws on the port rail and hanging his head out over the water, the wind ruffling his short fur.

"Did the darkspawn get her?" Carver asked. "My cousin, that is? The letter from Mother's cousin Revka didn't say how she died."

Her stomach clenched again at the sudden, vivid image of the funny, pretty, black-haired mage, blood pouring from mouth and nose, convulsing violently on the floor of the old temple at Ostagar. She swallowed carefully. "No. She died at our Joining; Delia and two others."

"Three of...?"

"Seven."

"Oh." Carver seemed taken aback. "Perren thought you might have been...well, overstating the danger as an excuse for not taking a chance on me."

"Even though you were dying at the time? That would hardly have made sense."

"I think even my brother would admit that sense isn't really one of his strong points."

Their fellow Wardens joined them at the rail. "Any special instructions for training, Commander?" Denel tossed Carver two short, blunted daggers.

"I've trained with my greatsword since I was six," Carver said hopefully, eyeing the knives with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"What's your backup weapon if you're disarmed?" the burly dwarf asked.

"I have my, um, belt knife."

"Aw, that's cute! What do you use in narrow hallways or tunnels?" Sigrun smiled sweetly.

"Err."

"What do you use if you know you'll need a shield to protect a mage from arrow-fire or hold a line against a charging enemy?" Myr asked.

"Maker! I see your point!" Carver bristled. "Sorry, Commander."

"At ease, recruit. The point is..." She closed her eyes again and steadied herself at the rail. "Oh, hmm. Sigrun?"

"The point, Carver, is that the Wardens fight darkspawn everywhere; every square mile on the surface and under it, save open water. For that you need flexibility, so you will be trained in every weapon we have available as well as unarmed combat, which we start on tomorrow."

"That...makes some sense, actually. I'm keeping my sword, though," he declared.

"Of course; everyone has a specialty." Myr shivered and leaned farther out over the water. "And now if you'll all attend to your training, I think I'd like to throw up again."

oOo

Thoroughly humbled by dagger practice the prior afternoon, Carver seemed bent on some rather unsportsmanlike payback as they met for unarmed combat training the next day. Or so it seemed to Myr, watching once more from the rail.

"You will learn to pull your punches when training, recruit, or I will stop doing so," Denel growled menacingly, clutching his ribs.

Sigrun, already favoring an ankle twisted while avoiding a surprise rush, barely dodged a side-kick. "You might have told us you knew more than how to swing that big knife."

"You didn't ask," Carver panted, neatly avoiding Sigrun's grab at his leg. "You just assumed." He followed a feint at Denel with a sweep that nearly took Sigrun off her feet. "I grew up in a house with two mage siblings, both of whom I was forbidden to draw on. How do you think I lived past childhood?" Carver hurled himself at Denel again, radiating anger; evidence to Myr's green-tinged awareness that the exercise was getting out of hand.

"Enough!" she called weakly, though loudly enough to bring the bout to a halt. Sigrun, her temper quickly restored, found cold water and rags for herself and her two opponents to wash up. Denel, red-faced and fuming, looked briefly as if he might disobey the order before his trademark discipline took hold. Anger and frustration clouded Carver's face before he too appeared to master himself, if slowly.

"Carver, you obviously have some proficiency in hand-to-hand combat. Start thinking about how you would organize a series of training sessions." Myr bit her cheek to keep from returning his sudden, gratified smile. "However, I'm sure you realize that anger has no place in the training ring. I think we'll take a break from unarmed combat for the near term, and go back to dagger tomorrow."

oOo

A half-day out from Amaranthine, and Myr had given up on the idea of being an active mentor for their new recruit. While Denel and Sigrun continued the training exercises with Carver, joined on occasion by the crew and even the merchant captain, their Commander huddled under her blankets, waiting for port. Surprisingly, it was Sigrun's small store of lichen tea that allowed her to keep down any food at all. It smelled of mildew and had a disturbingly syrupy texture, but it did seem to be working.

A quiet knock on the cabin door woke her from a light doze. "Commander? You asked to speak with me?"

Myr carefully stood, ignoring the accompanying dizziness, and smoothed the covers. "Come in, Carver." The boy looked anxious but straightened into the best approximation of military attention he could while trying not to brain himself on the low ceiling. She waved him at Sigrun's bed. "At your ease. Nothing is wrong; I just wanted to speak with you privately."

The young man grunted irritably and sat. "Sigrun told me there was a second part to the Joining that we couldn't see to in the Deep Roads, something involving a pail of bear grease and several live chickens. I knew I shouldn't have believed her."

Myr groaned and rubbed her temples. "Never trust the dead. Never."

"That's alright, Commander." He laughed. "I think she's trying to make me feel welcome, actually, and I was a bit of a tit during training earlier. I think I'd be more worried if everyone started going out of their way to be overly nice. Like I was dying or something. Or dying again, rather."

"You're not dying any more than the rest of us are, Carver. But what I told you was true; Wardens don't generally live long lives, and not always because of the darkspawn. Or not always directly because of them."

"I thought you said that the blood I drank would make me immune to the Taint?" Carver protested.

"Since you survived the Joining, you have gained mastery over the Taint in your body; that makes you immune to any further damage by the Taint in darkspawn blood. But that protection isn't total, and it isn't permanent. The Taint is a poison; becoming a Warden just slows its effects."

Carver was silent for a moment, then shook himself slightly and shrugged. "Two weeks ago, I didn't think I had a few hours left, not to mention a few years." He looked worried again. "It's more than a few years, right?"

"Likely more than a few, yes. Depending on age at joining, general health and other factors that we can only guess at, an average of twenty to thirty years."

"Oh. Well I...suppose it's helpful to have some boundaries."

Myr shrugged noncommittally. "If you think so. It bothers me to contemplate, to be honest; I figure I'll have time to worry about it closer to that time."

Carver let his breath out in a rush. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Commander. I was trying my best to convince myself."

She grinned wryly. "If you are looking for a stoic, Carver, best seek out Denel. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a Warden possessing a healthy fear of death; it gives us an edge and helps us survive long enough to protect as many people as possible from a truly horrible fate." She reached for her mug of cooled tea, shuddering with distaste as she sipped. "I believe you discussed your nightmares with Denel; that's good. You know why it must be a Warden who kills the Archdemon. You also know that the Taint will sharpen your physical skills as well as your hunger, help you sense darkspawn and sometimes your fellow Wardens."

"Is it a buzz of a sort? I might be feeling it a bit already."

"Very good. Yes, for some it is a buzzing or discordant ringing. For others, it can sound like words they can't quite make out, or even...singing." Myr moved on quickly. "Wardens also generally have quite low fertility; we think it is the Taint that interferes. I'm sorry, Carver, but you are unlikely to father children."

"Oh. I...hadn't given that much thought yet. Mother won't be pleased, to be sure. I'm not sure how I feel about that," he said carefully.

"Quite understandable. There are histories of the Wardens and the Blights that you will need to read and understand. There is one related topic, though, that can't wait for our leisure."

"Commander?"

"Carver, have you ever wondered how darkspawn reproduce?"

Whatever topic her recruit had been expecting, this wasn't it. "No, I, um...no. I guess I would have thought they'd just...you know, like normal..."

"Darkspawn are almost asexual, but technically male. The closest idea I can give you is to liken it to an ant colony, with one breeding Queen impregnated by multiple males. She grows to an enormous size and can produce hundreds if not thousands of darkspawn in her lifetime."

Carver's face twisted in revulsion. "So darkspawn can't be all male, then, like you said? Are the females just very rare, then? Like one out of a hundred darkspawn is born..." Myr shook her head and he looked confused for a moment before he grasped her meaning, horror dawning in his eyes.

"Yes, they take surface females. Humans bear hurlocks, dwarves genlocks, elves shrieks and qunari ogres. Take them and Taint them, and...well, you can gather the rest."

The young man was silent for some time before he took up the thread of the conversation again. "Well, at least female Wardens wouldn't be at risk of...that." He shuddered.

"Carver, it is the Taint that reduces a Warden's natural fertility, but it is that same Taint that is necessary to produce Broodmothers. There is no reason to believe that it would provide any protection against a Warden being transformed into a Broodmother. In fact, I suspect that the Mother may have..." She shook her head again. "Conjecture at this point isn't productive."

"But the Wardens recruit and train women!"

"Yes, though we are few. Of the seven recruits Duncan brought to Ostagar three were women, which was quite unusual. If he hadn't recruited us, Delia and I would have been imprisoned and likely killed, or in her case, made Tranquil. But Eren Cousland..." She shrugged off the thought. "It's of little use second-guessing a dead man. Suffice it to say that once I learned of the Broodmothers and how they are created, I rarely conscript women. And none of us will go to Orzammar at our Calling."

"Did you ask the First Warden about this when you were at Weisshaupt?"

"I did, and the First seems to feel that I overstate the danger. Regardless, I have been communicating more with my fellow Commanders in an attempt to learn what we can from each and to make sure no female Warden suffers that fate. Sigrun, Eren and I carry fast-acting poison and sharp knives, but neither are foolproof. To that end, Carver, I am going to ask you to give me your word of honor that if you are accompanied by any female Warden and find yourself in a situation involving darkspawn where there is no reasonable chance that you can escape, you will do everything in your power to end her life in as final a way possible."

Carver paled. "You want me to swear to kill you."

"Or any female Warden, yes; that is what I am asking of you. You would be saving us, Carver, from a horrifying fate."

"I...I think I understand, or I'm trying to." He took a deep breath and let it out, shakily. "Very well, Commander. You have my word."

"Thank you, Brother."

oOo

Captain Janes pulled his small merchant neatly into the free berth at the Amaranthine docks at sunset that evening. After one last bout of retching, Myr managed the gangplank with a hand from Denel and finished her business with the captain. "Fair warning, Wardens; either we find our beds within the hour or you're carrying me. Let's find an inn."

"You can't weigh more than six stone, Commander. I've wondered before why you don't just ride Mouse." Sigrun giggled at Carver's shocked expression. "Oops, I think I just scandalized the Fereldan recruit. But really, Myr, just give it some thought before you dismiss my idea completely. Hundreds of years before you, Garahel rode his magnificent tawny griffon into battle against the Archdemon Andoral. There aren't any griffons left, but..." She nodded to the bristling hound.

"That's a great idea, Sigrun. I'll make you a deal; if you can saddle him, I'll ride him." Mouse's low growl barely carried in the still night air.

"Hmm. Humor doesn't seem to translate well into Mabari."

"I think it translated just fine." Denel stepped inside a nearby inn, only to rejoin them a moment later. "It might take some time to find somewhere that isn't full, Commander."

"Let's just press on to Delilah's. She usually keeps a few rooms for visiting Wardens."

oOo

By the time they reached the estate, Myr was struggling to stay upright and moving forward. She was pleased to note the absence of the absurd gold-chased and engraved plate armor with which Bann Esmerelle had tarted up her gate guards. The two guards in their utilitarian splint mail watched them carefully as they approached.

"Halt!" One of the two, a huge young man with longish pale hair, advanced on Myr. "You approach the estate of the Bann of Amaranthine. Back the way you came, elf."

"Lay off the chit, Guff; she looks about to drop." The second guard, an portly older man, fished a small apple out of his coat and tossed it to her.

"Thank you, Guardsman." Myr turned back to the boy in front of her. "The manners of your fellow, though, seem less refined. What if I were, say, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden? How would your rude greeting reflect on the Bann?" She shook her head sadly.

"Haw haw! Get this, Wetherly, the knife-ear thinks she's the Hero of Ferelden!"

"What did you call her?" Carver reached for his sword, only to find his arm held immobile in Denel's powerful grip.

"Watch and learn, son," the Senior Warden told him in an undertone.

"Don't call me son."

"What if," Myr continued, "just for argument's sake, mind you, I was not only the Warden-Commander, but a personal friend of Bann Delilah?"

"The Bann's a gentlelady, she wouldn't..." The first hint of indecision colored the boy's gruff voice.

"Commander, wasn't it a little over two years ago that the Queen gave oversight of Amaranthine to the Wardens?"

"I believe that is accurate, Warden Sigrun."

"Doesn't that make the Commander of the Grey also the Arlessa of Amaranthine?" The perky dwarf was clearly enjoying herself.

"It...you...can't..." The sweating boy started to edge away slowly.

"I daresay you are correct again, Warden. Guardsman, I believe Sergeant Deorwin could verify our identities, if you wouldn't mind." The older guard signaled another to take his place and jogged away as Myr turned back to the younger man. "Oh no; as you were, Guardsman. I'm sure that you will want to keep me under surveillance, to make sure that I don't steal anything." She smiled indulgently and started in on the apple.

oOo

Three days of sleeping, bathing, touring the city with Delilah to assess the reconstruction effort and eating whatever was put before her, and Myr was more than ready to set out for Vigil's Keep. Considering the labor and supplies involved in keeping four Wardens and one enormous mabari adequately fed for that length of time, the Bann's cooking staff was likely ready for them to do so as well.

They rode out on the Pilgrim's Path into drizzle and mud; the last of the late-season snow had finally surrendered to Spring's warmth and rain. With a small group of five, it would be a pleasant enough day's journey despite the damp. With fourteen it felt akin to a parade, and Myr had suffered through entirely too many of those in the days following the Blight.

"Cheer up, Commander. Let's just forget our earlier disagreement and enjoy the day." Myr's traveling partner smiled a bit smugly.

"Delilah, I'm asking you one last time to return to Amaranthine. Traveling with Wardens is not safe."

"Where could I possibly be more safe than at the side of the Hero of Ferelden?" Delilah laughed.

"Pretty much anywhere, actually; it's come to be one of the more dangerous locations in Thedas. Things that your guards will retreat from to protect you, we cannot. In addition, darkspawn can hear Wardens as we can them, and will travel any distance to attack us."

"Then I shall instruct my sergeant that in the event of hostilities, my soldiers are not to engage, and to retreat with me to safety."

"This is idiocy. I should just order you back to Amaranthine to follow tomorrow."

"You tried that already, Myr. I'll just wait five minutes and trail along behind. Isn't it more convenient this way?"

"Very," Myr agreed. "Right up until we ride into the Vigil courtyard together and your brother conveniently runs me through."

oOo

"What's got your bits in a bunch, Carver?" Sigrun smirked up at him from the back of her stocky pony.

"My...what? Whatever it is that you mean, they are perfectly fine, Sigrun."

"You look ready to twist someone's head off their neck. Some friendly advice? When surrounded by strangers with large pointy things protecting a noble, it really isn't the wisest idea to stare in the noble's direction with a murderous look on your face. Just saying."

"Why didn't the Commander have that guard thrown in gaol or the stocks or...or...beaten with sticks or something?" he demanded.

"What? Oh, that gate guard. Well, she did make him squirm pretty effectively. That was funny."

"He called her a...well, you heard it. Didn't that bother you? Didn't it bother _her_? If I'd been that sergeant, he'd have been out on his arse."

"You're still pretty worked up about that, four days on."

"I saw him as we left, still guarding that same blasted gate. I'd love to have given that son of a bitch a thrashing." He glared down at her. "Why aren't you as angry as I am?"

"It's just words, Carver."

"It's not just words. How many times has she put her own life at risk to protect idiots like him? Where's her pride?"

Her smile faded. "Carver, in the kinds of places where Myr and I grew up, pride just gets you deader, faster. In Orzammar, the casteless aren't even considered people; it isn't a crime to kill us, and many times we're just thrown in a handy lava stream or left in the Deep Roads as infants." She looked away from him again, out across the rolling hills just starting to show some early spring green. "The alienages I've seen aren't as bad as Dust Town, but then the nobles of Orzammar don't use our particular shithole as a whorehouse, either."

"What!"

"Keep your voice down. If you really want to know about how the Commander got to be where she is, ask her. All I'm saying is that there are worse things than being called 'knife-ear' or 'brand'. She pointed out the man's racism and left him to stew about it. If she'd caused him to lose his position, his contempt for elves would've blossomed into full-blown hatred, and it would likely have been her own people to pay the price. As it was maybe he'll give it some thought, and the next time one of his drinking buddies goes on about some knife-ear whore, he might just tell him where to go and what to spin once he gets there."

"But what if he doesn't? What if he just thinks that it's a big joke that he got away with insulting the Hero of Ferelden?"

Sigrun shrugged. "Eh. You can't win all the time, kid."

"Don't call me kid, shorty."

"What was that, recruit?"

"I said that it's a fine day to be traveling in your august company, Senior Warden."

"That's what I thought."

oOo

It was almost sunset when the small party rode out of the scrub south of the Hafter River and Vigil's Keep came into view. "Maker, that's..." Carver trailed off into stunned silence, shaking his head.

"Hulking? Ostentatious?" Myr looked over the huge fortress with pride at odds with her words. Despite the association with the previous arl, a violent, corrupt madman, the ancestral home of the Howes was impressive. The sunset softened the dark grey stone of the walls, and new banners with the Warden's rampant griffon crest hung at gate and tower; it was quite grand. More practically for a remote fortress housing a company of warriors, their retainers, servants, guards and families, it was functional and solid, thanks in large part to the tireless and surprisingly expensive efforts of Voldrik Glavonak and his team of dwarven stonemasons.

Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Not long after the small group rode out onto the Hafter River bridge, Myr could see activity at the gates and atop the walls. She smiled at Carver, craning his head to try to see everything at once. "Welcome to the Vigil, Warden."


	3. Auld Lang Syne

_Thanks to everyone reading along and commenting, and to my intrepid beta, mille libri._

**Auld Lang Syne**

"My Lady, there are...oh!" Myr opened one eye to a flash of brown dress and blond hair before the heavy bed curtains fell closed again. The clatter of crockery on the nightstand told her that Enna had at least left the tray before racing back out the door.

"For shame, _lethallin._" She yawned. "You've broken her heart to see you in my bed, and now I'm in for days of downcast eyes and reproachful glances."

"This heap is like an ice cave; I was freezing alone." Aene Mahariel pressed himself tightly against Myr's back. He was tall and powerfully-built, with heavy, long black hair; a strong contrast to his lithe, blond lover Zevran, at least superficially. His visits were a mixed blessing; Myr loved to see her friend, but she and her Wardens endured frequent episodes of tepid tea and lukewarm dinner, served by preoccupied young girls. "I suggest a maleficar or two; I think Avernus does something to heat the main keep at the Peak. I'm loath to call too much attention to it for fear that he'll stop. His tower is still freezing, though; he won't even allow the hole in the ceiling to be fixed."

"The icy air probably helps preserve that corrupt old wretch. Coffee?" Myr dove into her thick dressing gown and poured, then quickly scrambled back into the warm bed.

"Reminds me of our days on the trail; how often the three of us would huddle in your tent for warmth that winter."

"Until you and Zev woke in the middle of the night and started getting frisky."

"Getting 'frisky'?" Aene laughed. "Did our canoodling bother you? Our _congress_? Our _relations_?"

"I did appreciate that you kept the really energetic _congress_ for when I was on watch." She smiled and leaned into him. "I've missed you."

"And I you, _lethallan_. Let's go see for what dire threat milady was summoned."

oOo

"Lord Eddelbrek, Ser Derren, I believe that your explanations and voluminous notes will be sufficient for the Commander to give your concerns the attention they deserve. Unfortunately, she has business with ..."

Ser Derren frowned at Varel. "Do not attempt to shoo us, Seneschal. We've waited two months for the Arlessa to return."

Myr peered up at her vassals from behind the piles of parchment stacked on her desk. "Thank you for the reminder, Warden Varel. My Lord, Ser Derren, my Wardens are waiting for me to join them. I appreciate your bringing this situation with your tenant-farmers to my attention; if you will return to the Vigil in two weeks, that will give me time to evaluate our resources and devise solutions that will work for all of us."

Eddelbrek smiled blandly and bowed. "Of course, Arlessa. Come, Derren." He led the fuming man from Myr's office.

"Didn't I give that man his bridge or field or whatever back, over that Packton shrew's vociferous and mostly legal objections?" Myr groused as she looked over the packet of records the two had compiled.

Varel nodded. "And allowed Eddelbrek's sheep to freely graze on that late and unlamented Lady's estate."

"The short one, Derwood? He does have a point," Aene drawled from his perch on the window ledge. "I had to pass through his outlying farms on the way to the Vigil. They barely have the numbers to plant their fields, much less harvest this autumn."

"The workers are making more money in the city, with the rebuilding," Varel noted.

"I know that they both lost a great deal during the Blight and the Thaw, but our coffers aren't exactly..." Myr stopped and cocked her head slightly.

"I never like to see that look on your face, Tabris," Aene said warily.

"Too suspicious by half, Mahariel. Varel, would you mind gathering everyone in the meeting room? I need to catch the gentlemen before they leave." She hurried out the door.

oOo

" Ser..._Warden_ Perth." Myr corrected herself as she grasped his hand warmly, interrupting his automatic bow. "Welcome to the Order. I can't tell you how pleased I was when Warden Nathaniel told me of your recruitment. Although I fear we may suffer Arl Teagan's wrath at stealing his finest knight."

The tall man blushed slightly and smiled. "Thank you, Commander. My Lord was...surprised, certainly. But when I told him of my calling to this life, my faith that this course had been set out before me, he understood and wished me well. The recall of my brother knights following your success with the Ashes helped to swell their numbers once again, though we lost several at Denerim." He paused for a moment, then continued. "He did wish me to convey to you his deepest regards, though he added that if you tried to recruit more knights away from his service, he would...ah, but that is not a comment for mixed company, please forgive me." He nodded to the women, his cheeks reddening.

"No need, Warden. I can guess," Myr grinned. "Everyone, if you would be seated. We have a lot to cover."

Myr had set aside time later that evening for Varel and Eren Cousland to bring her up to date on the general state of the arling, matters of trade, and the summons from Anora that had arrived while she was in the Free Marches. There were topics more pertinent to the Wardens themselves to cover with all of them in attendance.

Eren, Nathaniel and Finn had returned to the Vigil from Kal'Hirol the previous evening after Myr and the others had crawled into their respective beds. They had an extensive report from the dwarven historians and their findings. At Soldier's Peak, Aene reported good progress on the rebuilding effort.

"That older Glavonak brother is a marvel; everything he puts his hand to is solid enough to last for centuries. The younger, though...I've met some crazy _durgen'len_ in my time," he smirked at Sigrun, "but this one takes the biscuit."

"Dworkin is certainly enthusiastic in pursuit of his craft," Myr acknowledged.

"You sent a pyro to a keep with a loony shem mage socked away in the tower." He glared at her. "Last month Voldrik asked my opinion about demolishing the remains of the old smithy. Dworkin overhears, runs to have words with his fellow nutter, and an hour later the old smithy is gone..."

"That's efficient."

"...along with the curtain wall it stood next to and half the hillside. Fortunately the only thing on the downslope from the smithy was several thousand vertical feet of evergreens and a few poor squirrels. On the plus side, Voldrik thinks he may have found a vein of silverite where the wall used to stand."

"Congratulations on the find, Brother." Nathaniel said with a faint smile.

"You won't be so smug when I ship Dworkin right back here to the Vigil, Brother."

"Actually, they come as a set." Myr shrugged apologetically. "Voldrik won't be parted from his brother. I think it's him that keeps Dworkin from sliding the rest of the way into lunacy. To move from that awkward subject, Aene, how go your recruiting efforts?"

"Morin survived his Joining; Athras did not. I'm sorry, Myr, I know how much you liked him."

"I did." She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "At least he and Danyla are together again."

"Danyla?" Carver spoke up for the first time that morning. "A Dalish lady? Is that a common name?"

"Not very. Where have you heard it?" Aene asked.

"We were contracted to hunt mercenaries that almost wiped out the ruling family of Starkhaven. We were looking for them out on the Wounded Coast."

"I heard about the coup from Fergus; he said they'd set some puppet cousin up as Prince? I'd like to hear more of that later if you wouldn't mind, Warden Carver. Sorry for interrupting." Eren smiled at the young man.

"I...of...of course not, Lady...Cousland...I mean Warden Eren." Carver ducked his head and blushed.

"About Danyla, Carver?" Myr prompted gently.

"Oh, yes. This may seem hard to believe, though."

"Trust us. We've seen a bit."

He laughed and visibly relaxed. "There was a group of Dalish that had tracked some humans all the way from Ferelden and caught one of them alone; a werewolf, they said. The leader of the group—I didn't catch her name—said that he had murdered her mother."

"That's impossible—Aene killed her," Myr said.

"Pardon me, Warden Aene?" Perth looked shocked and vaguely ill. "You murdered one of your people?"

"Killed her, Warden Perth, not murdered," Aene corrected sharply. "Werewolves ambushed one of our clans in the Brecilian forest, killing some and infecting many more with lycanthropy. We came upon one in the forest that still held onto her sanity, though she was in torment. For my people at least, the curse was fire in their veins, unending agony. She begged us to kill her, to give her peace from the torture. I granted her wish."

"My apologies and condolences. I did not mean to judge."

"Apology accepted." Aene nodded stiffly. "When we investigated we learned that the Keeper, Zathrian, had cursed a group of humans centuries before, condemning them and all of their descendants to madness and lycanthropy."

"Cursed them? Why? And how?" Finn asked.

"Some of the most powerful blood magic I've ever seen, though I'm hardly an expert. He cursed the humans for killing his son and brutalizing his daughter."

"Aene and Myr managed to convince the Keeper to end the curse," Eren continued, "The humans returned to their natural forms, and the elves that were sickened with it recovered. It was too late for Danyla, though. I hope their daughter can find peace with it all."

"Merrill offered to guide them to..."

"Merrill!" Aene interrupted Carver. "How do you know my clansister?" he demanded.

Myr hadn't had the opportunity to tell the other Wardens of the Hawke family's harrowing flight from Ferelden. As Carver related their escape from the darkspawn and Flemeth's astonishing appearance, she watched the same profound disquiet that she and Denel had shared reflected on Eren's and Aene's faces, and the mixed confusion and disbelief on the others. She rose and stretched as she listened, stepping into the hallway to ask for tea.

"I just wish I knew why Marethari is staying so close to Kirkwall, and what could have happened to the halla," Aene muttered worriedly.

"Hopefully I'll get some answers when..." Myr broke off as her father entered with tea.

"Go ahead with your discussions, all; I promise I won't listen." Cyrion smiled and started pouring.

"You don't need to bring us tea, Father; we have people we pay to do that. If you put it on the sideboard, we can serve ourselves when we finish in a moment."

"I don't mind, Myraene. There are some sandwiches, and I made honey-cakes."

"Honey-cakes? Well, we're probably done here."

oOo

The Great Hall was quiet at midnight, save for the guards walking their patterns and the occasional hungry Warden up late. Myr frequently stopped in the small library alcove off the Hall on the way to the kitchens for a snack before turning in. Scattered amongst the books were other items: a dented, filthy hip flask; a set of maps in a carefully oiled leather belt case; a small bag of rocks, shells and wooden buttons—a little boy's collection of treasures.

"Commander?" The tentative greeting startled Myr out of her reverie, and she put the bag back in its place.

"Good evening, Carver. On the way to the kitchens as well?" She waved off his guilty smile. "Don't stint yourself on food; that's where I'm bound as well. Add in an unfamiliar and rigorous training regimen, and you're going to be hungry. A lot. Oh, and I have something for you; Wade delivered it this evening."

Wrapped in a burnishing cloth was an unembellished silverite medallion on a long twisted chain. "Th-thank you Commander."

Myr only smiled at the not-quite-suppressed confusion in his voice. "It doesn't need to stay so plain, Carver." She drew out her own medallion to show him the design; a tree with a thick, twisting trunk and spreading branches. "This is the Vhenedhal tree from the Denerim Alienage where I grew up. I used to climb it as a child and look out over the city before I grew bold enough to sneak out on my own. These amulets are a tradition for the Wardens; there is a bit of the Joining mixture captured inside, a reminder of those we've lost. Father does the engraving."

"It's amazing work. He's a baker and a metalworker? As long as he doesn't confuse the two, I suppose." He laughed.

"He also plays the lap harp, tells wonderful children's stories and is quite deadly with a bow."

"You think a lot of your father; it's easy to see."

"Yes I do. Of course he's my father so some small bias might creep in." Myr sobered as she recalled what he had told them of Malcolm Hawke's recent death. "I'm sorry that I never got to meet yours, Carver. He'd be quite proud, I think."

"Maybe." He shrugged uncomfortably and nodded at the amulet in his hands again. "Maybe a mabari, or a griffon. Or the big Lothering windmill, for home. Your other pendant ... is that a tiny rock, Commander?"

"It is." She untied the bag of rocks and buttons, spilling some into her hand. "I laughed at Imriel's bag of rocks once, until he told me they were the only thing from his home that the templars let him keep. He found some copper wire and crafted one that I particularly liked into a pendant. Dared me to wear it." Her smile faded.

"Imriel? I haven't met him yet, I don't think."

"Imriel Surana, from the Circle; he knew your cousin, actually. They were friends, the four of them; Imriel, Delia, Anders and Jowan. We recruited him when we returned to the Tower after Ostagar. He later died."

"I'm sorry, Commander. That ring on your chain; he was your husband?"

"Thank you, Carver. But no; Imriel and I were close, but he died only a month and a half after joining the Wardens. We grew close so quickly in those days." She turned the ring in her fingers. "This was to be my wedding ring. I think I told you that I was betrothed to a young man named Nelaros before I left Denerim? He is gone as well." She shook off the memory and forced a smile. "Listen to me, I sound like a sobby maiden in one of those impossibly tragic Orlesian ballads. It's never easy, losing friends."

"Or sisters." Carver paused and then nodded at the bookshelves. "I should ask Varric to send you signed copies of his serials. He'd be insufferably smug to think of his stories taking up shelf space at Vigil's Keep. Of course, he's insufferable regardless."

"I think he might be less smug if he knew the titles with which his would rub shoulders." She smirked and pointed to a leather-bound volume, shiny from handling. "_Bonny Edme_, a rather blue collection of letters from a Starkhavian Chantry scribe to his object of admiration, a black-haired lady of negotiable virtue. Or this; _101 Antivan_...oh dear, never mind that one. There are your devotionals and political histories, of course, but most are books handed from friend to friend, to pass the time at camp when it's too rainy to travel, or for diversion when the nightmares get too dark."

"These other things; the chantry amulet, the scroll...?"

"That amulet belonged to your cousin. There was a templar at the Circle; they were close. He gave her his amulet when Duncan recruited her and she left with us. The scroll is Elvish; a hymn to Falon'Din for guidance across the Veil to the Beyond."

"Is that yours, Commander?"

"Feel free to call me Myr in private, Carver," she said absently. "But no, it belonged to Justice. I found the prayer scroll in a Dalish camp in the Wending Woods; the elves had all been killed or taken by the darkspawn. He said that the cadence and the words helped him feel like he still had a link to the Fade, even if he couldn't travel there."

"The spirit...felt comforted? The Justice that took over Anders that night in the Chantry didn't seem to care about anything but killing templars."

"That's not Justice, not anymore. Justice knew compassion, even wonder. He could feel the lingering emotions of the man whose body he inhabited; he felt the love Kristoff bore his wife, marveled at it. He could hold her locket and see moments of their life together; it was...extraordinary. As a spirit of justice he wanted to bring that to the world, of course, but it was about freeing those held unjustly, helping those who needed help. What he has become, what they have done..." Myr shuddered.

"You mean leaving the Wardens? I know that's not allowed."

"That's all he said; just that he left?" Myr shook her head, unsurprised. "There is more to it, of course. I'll tell you about it when we're on the road."

"The road?"

"We're off to Denerim for an audience with the Queen. I have some items of business, but she also likes to meet the new Wardens. She's already acquainted with Perth, so it's just you this time." She smiled at his expression. "Don't worry, Carver. Anora isn't the intimidating force of nature the stories talk about. She's just a person, like you or me."

"Really? I'd heard..." He stopped and sighed. "Oh, right, having me on."

"Yes; she's more that intimidating force of nature type." She motioned to the door to the kitchen. "Let's get some food."

"I'm not so hungry now."

oOo

"Did you bring me anything from the kitchens?" Aene yawned and blinked sleepily from under a pile of blankets.

"You're not eating in my bed." Myr put the plate on the table next to her reading chair, stripped quickly and slid into bed as Aene crawled out.

"You've gone all fussy, _lethallan_. You never used to worry about that kind of thing when we were traveling." He pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped himself in it as he started in on the food.

"When bed is rank skins and rags that hadn't seen water in a month, sleeping with two men who always smelled like they just had sex? No, a few bread crumbs were really the least of my worries. Speaking of which..."

"You know, you should promote that cook's apprentice, the wiry one. He has gifted hands." Aene chuckled as he fed ham bits to Mouse, stretched out in front of the fire.

"I'm telling Zev." She smirked, then sniffed at the bedding. "Wait, you didn't..."

"I have a perfectly good bed of my own for that sort of thing." He laughed. "Our relationship works for us, and he certainly isn't keeping himself celibate while he works out his Crow issues. There are bonfires and tiny flames, _emm'asha_. The small doesn't diminish the large."

"Perhaps not for you."

"You could do with a few flames of your own, you know, as well as a few extra pounds. You dropped some weight again while you were up in the Marches, and you don't have it to spare." He put the plate with the rest of the cheese on the floor for Mouse and slid back in next to her.

"A month of nug and Denel's rock cakes will do that to a person, I'm sorry to say. Maybe I'm trying to get rid of my last vestiges of breasts and hips so you'll take me to your bed in truth, _emma sa'lath,_" she purred.

"You'll need to wait for Zev on that score, alas. You lack that one particular item for which I'm really rather keen; he's less particular." His soft chuckle ended in a sigh. "I miss him, Myr. More than I thought possible."

"I do too." She stroked his muscular arm, wrapped around her waist. Her thoughts doggedly returned to the decision she had made on the journey from Kirkwall. "I'm going to make Nathaniel Warden-Commander, Aene. The Wardens need their Commander here, especially with our new recruits."

"You think you'll be gone for that long this time? I'd come with you if I could, you know that."

"I know, but I think we both realize that you're the only one that can command the Peak. Anyone else would've killed or been killed by Avernus by now, or allowed Levi and his brood to do him in. I need him to keep working on the Joining recipe, now that we have him working ethically, or thereabouts. We're up to about sixty percent survival; I'd like to see it higher."

"You're admirably practical in some ways, and confounding prim in others. I will never figure you out, woman."

"You're not supposed to, _lethallin_." Myr laughed and patted his hand before growing serious again. "I would have made you Commander, but then you would be Arl, and would need to be here."

"Don't even joke about that. I wouldn't put up with all of these crazy shemlen for a wagon load of gold and all the cook's apprentices in Thedas. Not that they'd put up with me. Taking orders from the Hero of Ferelden is one thing; taking orders from some barbarian knife-ear? I think not. The ones up at the Peak are mostly Drydens, and almost bearable. Being shunned themselves seems to give them a healthier attitude towards the People."

"To say nothing of having a completely amoral blood mage to back you up, should they grow obstreperous."

"You stole entirely too many books from the shems as a child, Myr. You and your fascination with their large words." He laughed.

"I cannot change my race, Aene. But if I can speak the language as well or preferably better than they do themselves, it gives me an edge." She shrugged. "I'll speak with Nathaniel and Eren about all of this when we get back from Denerim."

"You just don't want to give Nathaniel too much time to think of arguments against your plan before you leave for the Free Marches again."

"No, I just don't want to have too much time to listen to them." She chuckled, finally relaxed and warm enough to sleep.

oOo

"Not that I don't appreciate the balm of your perennial good cheer, Maynee, but why did you insist on coming along on this jaunt? I thought you hated Denerim."

Maynee Brosca had both hands off the reins, trusting her placid little pony to amble along with the horses while she mumbled to herself and scribbled in a small, weather-beaten journal. Myr and Alistair had found her wounded and starving in a Carta prison cell in Orzammar, and she had been with them ever since, although she refused to even consider joining the Wardens. After their later encounter with the Broodmother, Myr was grateful in retrospect. She still didn't know why May felt as she had, but she fought and worked at their side all the same.

Maynee had fed her mother and sister by working for a Dust Town thug named Beraht, though her true gift was tailoring. From stolen bolts of cloth and scavenged trinkets, she created gowns and ornaments for her sister beautiful enough to help her win the notice of the young Prince Bhelen. With lessons in deportment and May's lovely dresses, Rica transformed herself into a consort fit for a king, as she came to be in truth. Their mother taken care of and her sister finding her dream, Maynee finally had the chance to escape her despised home.

Eren taught her to read and write during the quiet nights at camp during the Blight, and May had become a voracious consumer of books. Myr was a little concerned about bringing her back to Denerim, truthfully. There were rich libraries to be plundered, as she knew from her own nighttime expeditions as a girl.

"Denerim is worse than Orzammar; too many filthy, stone-forsaken people, stinking and shitting and all squashed together in one place. At least at the Vigil I can get away from you vermin whenever I want to, which is often. But I have too much to do, don't I?" she growled.

"Such as?" Myr asked, trying to mask the automatic suspicion in her voice.

"None of your dresses will fit since you dropped weight again; I'll need to take one of them in before you're fit to see the Queen."

"You really should try to eat more while you have the opportunity, Myraene," Cyrion agreed, riding at Myr's left.

"The boy doesn't have any clothes at all..." Maynee ran down her list.

"Don't call me boy, and I'm not naked." Carver trailed behind, too hung over from his introduction to Denel's stash of lichen ale to sight-see or do much apart from groan.

"Shut up, boy, and don't interrupt your elders," Maynee snapped, then nodded at Cyrion. "Your father needs something a bit richer for when he's presented at Court."

"Please don't trouble yourself on my account, Maynee. I doubt the Queen will miss one elf."

"Oh no, Father. If I have to go talk to her, everyone does." Myr smirked. "Besides, she expressed an interest in meeting you specifically, as she didn't have the opportunity at the coronation."

"The places you lead me, my daughter." Cyrion smiled and shook his head.

"Lastly, if we're going to be in the Free Marches for a number of months, there are some provisions that I'm not going to count on being able to buy there. Give me money." May held out her hand peremptorily.

"_We_ are going nowhere near the Marches, May; _I_ am," Myr stated firmly.

"I as well," Cyrion added.

"Father, we..."

"...discussed this three months ago, Myraene."

Myr was brought up short by the unaccustomed steel in her father's voice. There was really no firm reason that she could point to, to keep him in Ferelden any longer. "Very well, Father. You're right," she said softly.

"I am? Of course I am." He nodded, sealing the agreement.

"But you, May, are not my father and are not coming."

"Oh yes I am. You obviously need a couple of competent people to take care of you, seeing that Denel and Sigrun failed so spectacularly." Maynee looked her over again and huffed.

"I can take care of myself. And don't you two do that long-suffering look behind my back. Who is the Warden-Commander here anyway?"

"You've led us and looked after us admirably, Myr." Eren smiled back at her, interrupting her conversation with Aene.

"Thank y-"

"But May's right; you don't care for yourself." Eren shrugged apologetically.

"Who asked you," Myr muttered spitefully before turning back to the dwarf. "You're staying, and that's final."

"I'm not one of your Wardens, you idiot. You can't command me to do squat." Maynee laughed coarsely.

"I have other resources, May. I can keep you in Ferelden, I think."

"You? You couldn't even keep one sissy-pants human girl from following you to the Keep. What do you think your chances are of stopping me?"

"That sissy-pants human girl is Delilah Howe, the Bann of Amaranthine; you're just an obnoxious mini-person with a giant knobbly stick up her bum."

Maynee cackled and slapped her thigh, startling her pony. "Ah, I've missed you, girl."

"I missed you too, May. Maybe we'll talk about you coming along. For a...oh!" A sharp punch at her back, and sudden, burning pain had her grasping at what felt like an arrow embedded in her leather armor. She plucked at it uselessly for a moment as a strange lethargy overcame her.

"Myraene!" Her father shouted.

"Oh _bother_." She slid from her horse into blackness.


	4. The Wild Bunch

_Many thanks to those reading and reviewing. Special thanks to my ever-patient beta mille libri for bringing structure out of chaos. Any chaos still clinging is entirely the fault of the author._

**The Wild Bunch**

The dwarf was going to suffer a slow, painful death at Carver's hand; something commensurate with the sick, prickling stab in his head at every jounce from his horse. Like most young men, Carver had more than a few occasions to regret his consumption of an evening. But nothing that had been poured at Dane's Refuge or liberated from Barlin's still back in Lothering had ever made him feel like he had been ripped apart, the pieces beaten with sticks and reassembled in some ragged, haphazard fashion.

He stumbled upon Denel and Sigrun the previous evening, playing diamondback and sharing some leftover venison steaks, and joined them. Carver gamely sampled Denel's lichen ale, shuddering at the resinous taste. It became somewhat less objectionable as the evening wore on, and he drank more of the awful stuff than he intended; much more than was wise, certainly. Of the last hours of the evening he retained only the furiously embarrassing knowledge that the two had stripped him down to his smalls before tipping him into bed, and the feel of Sigrun's soft breasts pressed against him as he clumsily attempted to kiss her. She landed a quick peck on his nose, giggled and squirmed away.

He found their other female dwarf companion considerably less diverting. In looks and temperament, Maynee Brosca reminded him rather strongly of a dark-haired copy of Varric's brother Bartrand, minus a bit of facial hair and the homicidal tendencies. She had given Carver a raking look as they were saddling their horses early that morning, and he was left with the uneasy impression that she had him weighed, measured and mind-read to the last ounce, inch and unclean thought. Immediately forgetting his name, she proceeded to order him about in her harsh voice. "Boy, run to the kitchens and get another few loaves of bread." "Boy, go fetch Samuel. He said he'd have some flax oil made up for the horses." Unfortunately for his stabbing headache, it sounded as if she had just struck up another conversation with Myr, riding just ahead.

"The boy doesn't have any clothes at all..." she remarked in a condescending tone, as she consulted a list in her hand.

"Don't call me boy, and I'm not naked," Carver snapped. Bad enough to be treated as a child; infinitely worse to be treated so in front of your commanding officer.

"Shut up, boy, and don't interrupt your elders." The woman laughed coarsely. A moment later, Myr's father joined the two. Carver listened with half an ear as they discussed who would travel north with the Commander when she resumed her search for the Architect. He was overjoyed that the dwarven harridan was going and disappointed to hear that Cyrion was, as Carver had taken to the older man immediately and would have liked to have gotten to know him better. With his quiet competence and good nature, Cyrion reminded Carver of his own father.

Carver considered his own feelings about not returning to Kirkwall, and found them cautiously upbeat. What he had told Perren was the truth; it was Mother's home and was becoming Perren's, but Carver had no place there. Far more than just a wish to extricate himself from anyone's shadow, he had little interest in the social standing his mother sought to regain, and none in relying on anyone for his board or bread. The Wardens provided for their own, but it was earned, and then some.

Carver flinched at a muffled thump, followed by Myr's cry of surprise and pain. As Cyrion and Maynee shouted a warning, she slid bonelessly from her horse, an arrow lodged in her back. Carver grabbed for his sword as two elves rose from the scrabble at the side of the road. Several more stepped from cover behind a copse of scrubby pines, already drawing on the small group.

"Carver, Eren, on the archers; but we need one alive!" Aene called as he aimed and returned fire. "Cyrion, see to Myr. May, protect them."

Mouse growled furiously and leapt on one of the two near elves. No match for the dog's immense strength and weight, the elf shrieked as he pinned her to the ground, ripping into her face and neck. Carver spurred his horse directly at the other elf, riding him down. Before the man could recover and reach Myr, Maynee was there, wielding daggers with deadly concentration.

Cursing the uneven, rocky ground and swallowing against the resurgent nausea from his hangover, Carver threw himself from the saddle. Dodging arrows and fighting through the thick brush, he charged two of the archers. The first elf reacted far too slowly, and Carver's greatsword ripped through his light leather armor, opening his belly. The other had thrown down her bow in favor of a curved short sword, and she ran at him as he struggled to bring the large blade up in time to meet hers. Neither saw Aene draw and loose, and her sword dropped from numb fingers as the arrow took her full in the face.

The snap of a dry stick was all that saved Carver from a third assailant who rose from cover behind him. He ducked and twisted on pure reflex, and the axe aimed at his neck crunched instead into his mail hood and tore a ragged gash across his forehead. A wash of warm blood poured into Carver's eyes, nearly blinding him. He brought his greatsword around in a desperate swing, and the man cried out hoarsely as it bit deeply into his side. His screams cut off abruptly as an arrow buried itself in his neck.

Mopping at the blood flowing down his face, Carver saw that Eren was engaged with one remaining archer. He lurched towards the women, shaking his head to clear away blood and the strange ringing in his ears. As he closed with them, the elf suddenly collapsed under Eren's mailed fist. Carver made it two steps toward the wounded archer before falling to his knees and emptying his stomach onto her boots.

A strong tremor shook the earth, almost pitching Carver forward into the mess. With a cacophony of splintering wood and grinding rocks, a mass of tree roots burst from the ground next to Myr and Cyrion, sending Maynee tumbling. The gnarled roots retreated a moment later, and a thin elven woman in scraps of a robe and wild, knotted blond hair stood in its place, swirling clouds of crimson and moss green twisting around her. Cyrion rose, short sword in hand, only to be blown off his feet and sent flying by a gesture and a burst of energy from the woman.

"Velanna!" snarled Aene in shock and fury. Faster than Carver could track, Aene sent two arrows in succession at the stranger mage; she snorted and brushed them aside contemptuously.

Before either Carver or Eren could reach her, she had grasped the unconscious Myr by the arm and raised her other hand skyward. A blinding cloud of frost rolled out from her hand in all directions, freezing them in place.

"You're just _seth'lin_ like this one, Mahariel. Don't you understand? When the Architect completes his work, the shems will be weak and..."

A throwing axe interrupted her rising voice, burying itself in her back. She was sent sprawling over Myr, screaming and twisting in agony.

"Bitch was starting to grate on my nerves." Maynee rose from the brush at the side of the road and approached the mage cautiously. "Never tried to use your whammy on dwarves before, sweet chee...shit! Cyrion, stay back!" She danced back from the spreading blood and circled the two elves cautiously.

When he could move again, Carver joined Aene and Eren where they were examining the woman. Her eyes were deep shadows against her pale skin; the pupils and irises only swirls of greyish-white. He finally realized consciously what his itching, jangling nerves had been trying to tell him. "Tainted? Is this what a ghoul looks like?"

"That is exactly what she is, but apart from her eyes, she doesn't show any physical signs," Eren replied. "Aene, Myr's stable for the moment. Velanna..." She shook her head.

"Where is the Architect, and what does he want with Myr, Velanna?"

"Oh, a very great deal, _lethallin._" The mage sneered, struggling for breath. "I wouldn't dream of ruining it for you...or her."

Aene grabbed a great hank of her hair, twisting it and bringing her face up to his. "Where is he?" he roared.

Velanna laughed weakly as her blood poured onto the dirt and soaked into Myr's leather armor. Her voice trailed off into a hitching rattle, and she eventually lay still.

"Damn," Eren swore and pushed the mage off Myr. "Aene, what is this arrow?"

"Fish arrow, barbed. Let me remove it."

"I'll see to that archer. Cyrion, could you help Carver?" Eren hurried to where the elf still lay unconscious.

"Heh. I forgot about my head in all the excitement. I...yes, I think I'll sit down for a bit." Carver looked down to find his chain mail splashed with crimson. "Wow, that's a lot of blood." He sat down heavily in the grass at the side of the road and slowly toppled backwards.

oOo

Carver tried to resist the voice commanding him to wake; he was very tired. The voice was strident and irritatingly persistent. "Momma, tell Bethy to stop pinching me."

"Ah hah hah! I could tan your bottom instead, boy. Now wake up and stay awake like Momma says."

Carver opened one blood-encrusted eye to find Maynee crouched over him, holding a poultice firmly to his forehead and pinching his arm through the chain mail. "Leave me alone, you awful woman. At least let me bleed in peace without you braying in my ear." He groaned and shut his eye again.

"Idiot boy! If you don't stay awake you'll be getting more peace than you can handle - the eternal kind." She pinched him again, bruisingly hard.

"Just try not to kill the patient before you have a chance to cure him, May." Eren knelt next to them and carefully started removing Carver's chain hood as Maynee washed the blood and dirt from his face. "We need to clean and stitch up the gash on your head, Carver; this is not going to be pleasant. Unfortunately, you're going to need to stay awake. With your head injury, we can't risk letting you sleep until we're sure there isn't worse damage."

"I can't think I'd stay asleep long when you start sewing up my head anyway." Carver chuckled, then winced in pain. "Oh, this will be fun. How is the Commander?"

"She still hasn't woken up, but Aene and Mendil think she'll be fine. The arrow was dosed with something the Dalish use when they need to sedate the halla," Eren answered as Maynee started to clean the wound. The horrid little dwarf had a sure, gentle touch, much to Carver's surprise.

"At least they got their blasted dosing right, or Myr would be kissing the stone about now."

"Mendil?" Carver asked.

"The wild elf chit," Maynee answered him as she strung a length of thread on a needle.

"The Dalish were being controlled by Velanna's blood magic. When she died, her hold on Mendil was released. Luckily she isn't badly wounded, physically at least. I hit her rather carefully." Eren took one of his hands. "Don't be afraid to squeeze my hand if it helps, Carver. You can't break it...I don't think."

"Are you sure that needle is clean?" he asked the dwarf nervously.

"Of course! I spit on it and wiped it off on my pants; good as new." Maynee grinned maliciously at him. "Now shut your yap and let me work. I'll stitch it in a little bow pattern; it'll be adorable."

Carver looked up at Eren beseechingly, but the woman only smiled and patted his arm. "Well, it can't be any worse than when I fell out of the hayloft and dislocated my shoulder," he said.

"You keep telling yourself that, boy." Maynee laughed again and went to work.

oOo

With Eren and Aene's assistance, Carver managed to stumble to the small campsite they had set up off the road. A blond female elf with leafy, vining facial tattoos partially covered by a poultice was sitting near the fire, her face blank and staring. Myr was finally awake, wrapped in blankets and leaning against her father, who was bruised and scraped but mostly uninjured. Maynee had set up a branch tripod over the fire and was stirring something that should have smelled appetizing, but made his stomach feel like it wanted to curl in on itself instead. They left him on the log next to Myr and went about setting up the tents while Mouse roamed on watch.

"I'm sorry you were wounded, Carver," Myr said softly. "How are you feeling?'

"I'm fine, Commander. Head hurts a little."

Myr chuckled weakly and turned to look him over. "You've looked better, honestly. But if you can joke about it, I won't worry too much."

The tents were up in short order and they gathered to eat, Carver waving off his portion, as did their guest. Maynee growled a bit but didn't press the issue.

"Did you want to talk yet tonight, Mendil, or would you prefer to try to sleep?" Aene asked the Dalish woman when he had finished his meal.

"I think that sleep will be long in coming tonight, brother. I keep seeing their..." She closed her eyes and was silent for several moments, then seemed to compose herself again. "Our clan has always been small, but we were decimated by the darkspawn when they fled Denerim for Amaranthine. When we finally saw the last of them we barely numbered sixty, less than half our number prior to the Blight. Our aravels were burned, the halla all dead. As you know, we were burned out of the grove we camped in by the humans, after which Velanna, Seranni and four of the hunters left the clan to seek revenge." She paused to accept a mug of tea from Eren, nodding her thanks.

"Take your time, sister," Aene murmured.

"After almost two years of struggling to rebuild our aravels and find more halla, we had little to show. We knew that we needed to go south to the Brecilian Forest, at least for a time. The halla congregate there and we would be away from the humans while we rebuilt. There are usually one or two clans in the Forest to trade with for tools and supplies. Our new Keeper, Liesn, took the children ahead with most of the scouts, while a dozen of us stayed behind to wait for word from Sarae's clan regarding a new First."

"When did Velanna come?" Aene prompted her when she had fallen silent for several minutes.

"Yesterday...I think? She appeared in the middle of camp, paralyzed most of us and killed the others. No, not just killed. She...ripped their lives from them, tore them apart in a storm of blood. She said that she needed our help – our _help_, after murdering our kin in front of us - and it seemed the most natural thing in the world. I hunted, I lay in wait, all at her command. I remember it all, every minute." She took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes. "You know the rest."

"_Ir abelas_, Mendil," Myr said quietly. "I can't help thinking that if I had handled Velanna differently, this tragedy might have been avoided."

"_Ma serannas_, Warden-Commander. I heard good things of you and your Wardens from Marren after he and his scouts met your party. No one could never have predicted that Velanna would join that...creature and perform these monstrous acts upon her own people."

Aene rose. "I will see to your hunters, sister. Velanna I will need to burn, in order to protect any travelers along the road."

"I would like to help if that is allowed, my lady?" Cyrion stood and bowed slightly to the Dalish woman, who also rose.

"Our rites are for Clan, but if I guess correctly, you are that."

Aene smiled fondly at the older elf. "That he is. Let us see our brothers and sisters to the Creators."

oOo

Mendil parted ways with Myr's small group before they broke camp for Denerim. Citing a need for solitude, she declined an offer from Aene to accompany her in the search for Sarae's clan.

"Remember my letter if you have any difficulties with the Amaranthine soldiers or farmers, Mendil. The same for those in South Reach, when you go to rejoin your clan. Bann Sighard is a friend of the Wardens and a decent man," Myr reminded her.

"I wish you would reconsider my offer, sister, but it is your choice." Aene embraced her briefly and stepped back.

"_Ma serannas_ brother, Warden-Commander, all. There will always be a welcome for you among our clan." The young woman bowed deeply and walked off into the early morning fog.

It took them another day and a half to reach the city, taking more and longer breaks to apply new poultices to Carver's wound and to stretch their bruised and sore muscles. The baths at the compound would be welcome indeed.

"Maker's bloody...and I thought Kirkwall smelled bad." Carver's face twisted with disgust, and he flinched in pain. "Remind me not to move my face, please."

Myr stifled a laugh and signaled for them to dismount and lead the horses. "I don't know that it's worse. Different, certainly. Denerim smells of fish and dog; Kirkwall stinks of fish and...well, fish. The climate to the north is rainier as well, so the sludge periodically washes out to sea."

"Halt! I need your names and the purpose of your visit to Denerim." Myr was brought up short by a gate guard barring her way.

"Is this a new policy, guardsman? Denerim is my home, and I have never been questioned at the gate before."

"I should have mentioned it, Myraene. It was in place before I came north to Amaranthine." Cyrion nodded at the guard. "Cyrion Tabris, and this is my home, as it is my daughter's."

The guard made a notation in his book and laughed. "Your last name's the same as the Hero of Ferelden! Ain't that a kick."

"Yes, Myraene Tabris, my daughter," Cyrion repeated in a confused voice, nodding at Myr.

"This is getting old." Carver leaned wearily on his horse.

"Welcome to my life," Myr sighed.

"Wot, the Hero? This girlie is just a little bit of a thing," the guard chuckled and winked at Myr.

"Did you just call the Commander of the Grey a 'girlie', Henkins?" A tall, red-haired man in burnished plate mail strode up to the gates.

"Guard-Captain! I...that is...she..."

"Did Ser Tabris not tell you his daughter's name?"

"Yes, but..."

"Are you hard of hearing, guardsman? Was he in some way unclear?"

"No ser!"

"I see. Report to the kitchens, Henkins. You're on KP until I find myself better disposed towards you. I don't see that happening for at least two weeks."

"Yes ser, sorry ser." Dejected, the guard handed his book to one of his sniggering fellows and slumped off.

The Captain waved the small group to a grassy stretch off the main thoroughfare and spoke with one of his guards briefly. He turned back to them with a smile. "Myr, it's been much too long."

"Daniel, it's wonderful to see you." Myr took his outstretched hands and kissed him on the cheek. "Oops, I suppose the Captain shouldn't be seen accepting kisses while he's on duty."

"Duty be damned, pardon my Orlesian. The day that I turn down a kiss from a lovely Warden is the day they can put me to the Flames. Edwards will fetch the grooms for your horses and notify the housekeeper at the compound of your return to the city."

"Thank you, Daniel. You remember Father, of course, and I believe you've met Maynee, Eren and Aene?" Myr nodded to the others in turn.

"Of course. Welcome back, Wardens, sers. It is always an honor."

"Carver, this is Guard-Captain Kylon. Daniel, this is Carver Hawke, our newest recruit."

"Well met, Warden." The Captain shook Carver's hand firmly.

"What is this change at the gates? Have there been attacks?" Aene asked.

"There have been...developments. I imagine that you are here to see the Queen, at least in part? I'd best leave it to Her Majesty to explain, then." Kylon leaned in close to Myr as the grooms approached. "Don't go anywhere alone, Myr, any of you. If you need me at any time, send one of my guards." He bowed and walked off towards Fort Drakon.

Myr sighed. "Bugger."

"I've taught you better than that, my daughter." Cyrion tried to frown.

"I am covered in shame to have disappointed you, Respected Father. Perhaps I will allow you to win a game of Chess after supper in atonement."

"Allow? You've never won a game against me in your life."

"I like achievable atonements," she smiled. "Let's get going. I swear I can smell Cook's braised mutton from here."


	5. Hide In Plain Sight

_I have to say that I was bowled over by the response to chapter 4 - many, many thanks to all who are following along, and particularly those who make time to review. Suggestions and comments are very welcome, and greatly appreciated. Special thanks to my beta, mille libri, for the insight and assistance with a chapter that was a bit of a struggle._

**Hide in Plain Sight**

Myr found Eren in the entrance hall of the Denerim Warden compound the morning after their arrival as she was preparing for her early-morning meeting with Anora. As much as she would have preferred a rest day after the trials of their journey, the Queen seemed to wish otherwise. A messenger from the palace had appeared at the compound the previous evening just an hour after their arrival, suggesting that the women's presence would be welcome early the next morning.

"I happened to notice a rather high number of guardsmen patrolling in the proximity of the compound last night," Eren said by way of greeting. "Interestingly enough, there are three guardsmen just outside the gate this morning. My, we are popular lately."

"It's been months since I've been conducted about Denerim by an armed guard. Here's hoping these are here to see us to the palace instead of Fort Drakon. With my history, it's an even bet." Myr unlocked the gate and approached the most senior of the three.

"Warden-Commander, Warden." The grey-haired guard bowed, the two others hastily following suit. "I am Sergeant Dunrie. Her Majesty suggested to my Captain that an escort might provide some discouragement to any hawkers and mendicants seeking to delay you. May we see you to the palace?"

"I'm fairly sure we remember the way, Sergeant, but very well." Myr smiled and nodded at the grizzled older man. "I hope Guardsman Henkins has not taken too much ribbing about what happened at the gates last night?"

"I wouldn't concern yourself with him, Commander. Do him good to peel some potatoes; getting a bit too full of himself and his log book. Enjoys the shouty bits, that one."

They passed the Arl's estate on the way to the palace district bridge. For the first time since before the Blight, Myr found that she could look on it without the inevitable stomach-clenching nausea. "Have the Kendalls settled their inheritance fight yet?"

One of the guardsmen chuckled, and the sergeant glared him into silence. "I'm not sure I would put in those terms, Commander, but there have been some developments. As you might be aware, Urien had a younger sister and brother, Averil and Ellis. After Arlessa Averil was murdered in her sleep by a suitor last year, her son Hubert was elevated to Arl."

"I heard about her Ladyship; how dreadful," Eren murmured. "Urien's nephew Hubert was invested just before the Landsmeet, but something happened not long after, I believe?"

"Indeed, Warden. Arl Hubert was tragically crushed by a falling gargoyle not a month later. There was actually no Arl or Arlessa for several months after that, due to some questionable record-keeping regarding the birth order of Arl Hubert's younger twin siblings, Wilfred and Frederick."

"They did eventually determine the oldest twin," Eren guessed.

"As expected, they found that the eldest was Frederick, if only by a few minutes," Sergeant Dunrie stated. "He was returning home from his solicitor's when set upon by bandit-knights."

"Bandit-knights?"

"Yes, Warden; thugs and miscreants. In fine armor, oddly enough. Lady Wilfred was quite surprised."

"Surprised to be Arlessa?" Myr asked doubtfully.

"Moreso by the poisonous snake in her chambers, Commander," Dunrie replied.

"Oh dear. I hadn't known that Ferelden had any venomous native species."

"We don't, Commander."

"And Urien's brother Ellis?" Myr asked after a moment.

"Bad soup."

"How...unusual," Eren managed finally. "So have they exhausted the collateral lines?"

"That may be the case, Warden. Arl Urien's father had no siblings, and his great aunt was childless. There was a girl that came forward after the Blight claiming to be the old Arl's daughter by a chambermaid, but she seems to have disappeared. Pursued, some have said, by a number of Crows."

"You're well-informed, Sergeant, thank you. I would not have wished to put a foot wrong due to ignorance of the, ah, situation." Myr nodded.

"My pleasure, Commander." He smiled and bowed again as he delivered them up to the gate guards outside the palace.

oOo

A pair of palace guards showed Myr and Eren to a small library in the family wing of the palace. Mahogany book cases lined the walls of the narrow, windowless, two-story room. Several slightly shabby but comfortable-looking chairs were clustered around the fireplace. An oblong table and chairs took up a large part of the room, the table covered in white linen and set with three places.

Anora, lovely and regal in pale green silk, arrived not long after. "Warden-Commander Myraene Tabris and Warden Eren Cousland, Your Majesty," one of their guard escort introduced the women.

"Warden-Commander, Warden. Thank you for coming to Denerim."

"Thank you for the kind invitation, Your Majesty," Myr replied, bowing slightly.

"We're ready to be served," Anora told the head footman and led Myr and Eren to the table.

"This is a handsome library, Your Majesty," Eren commented while the footmen served the meal. "I don't believe that I've been in this room before. It seems a little small for a palace library."

"This isn't the main library." Anora and Myr answered simultaneously.

Eren froze for a brief moment, fork raised, then calmly continued eating. "I see your cook hasn't lost her touch. The black pudding is delicious."

"I will give her your compliments." Anora turned to Myr. "You're familiar with the palace libraries, Commander?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Myr agreed.

Anora paused for a sip of coffee and Eren smiled at her. "Your gown is such a lovely shade of green, Your Majesty, and it compliments you. I wish I could wear those soft colors, but Maynee tells me that pastels would clash with my coloring."

"You're too kind," Anora murmured. "Tell me, Commander. How did it come about that you are so well-acquainted with the libraries? I don't recall any meetings held in any of them during the Blight."

"My knowledge predates the Blight," Myr said evenly.

"Oh? I was not aware that you previously served in the palace."

"I did not _serve_, Your Majesty."

"Did you try some of the kippers, Myr? I haven't had any this nice in years. Not since before the Blight, at least." Eren's tone turned melancholy, and she sighed softly. "Nan was a dab hand with smoking. Complained about the smell lingering on her clothes, of course, but she usually managed to find a complaint about most anything." A small sniff escaped her as she bent over her plate.

Myr hid her grin behind a hastily-raised napkin. Anora stared at Eren for a moment, a measure of annoyance finally breaking through the placid mask. She rose from the table and motioned Myr and Eren to the chairs near the fireplace, then signaled her bodyguard. "Clarence, the Wardens and I require privacy."

The guard controlled his surprise with some effort, then signaled to the footmen to quickly clear the table. He followed the guards and footmen out the door, closing it behind him with a bow.

Anora turned back to her guests. "Would you care to tell me why you're so _intimately_ familiar with the palace, Myr?" she asked, no longer bothering to hide her suspicion.

"Oh, for the Maker's...I certainly wasn't sneaking in for Cailan's or any other man's sake, Anora, if that's what you're insinuating. I never even met the King before Ostagar." Myr shook her head and snorted. "I snuck into the palace for the same reason I broke into every other estate in Denerim when I was young; for the books."

"You stole books. You're telling me that you broke into the most heavily-guarded fortress in Ferelden to steal books."

"I didn't steal anything, Anora; I borrowed them. Every batch of books I borrowed, I returned within a week or so."

"Every...you broke into the palace multiple times?" Anora appeared torn between outrage and a kind of grudging admiration. "I suppose you pretended to be a servant and just marched in that entrance?"

"Sometimes. Usually I just found an alternate entrance."

"You were never caught by a guard?" Anora asked.

"Once or twice, but as I was dressed as a servant and carrying bundles of clothes, they believed I had just made a wrong turn."

"I would have appreciated you speaking with someone about the lax security before now, Myr."

"I tried to speak of it with your palace guard captain, Ser Nigel, after that first Landsmeet; in a non-self-incriminatory context, of course. The Captain politely suggested that I might better concern myself with hacking apart darkspawn and leave the intricacies of protecting royalty to someone with the knowledge and the resources to do so."

"My ex-captain, you mean," Anora corrected, rubbing her forehead. "Actually, this is an unexpectedly appropriate lead-in to what I wished to discuss privately, before tomorrow's reception at Court."

"This library is secure, Anora?" Eren glanced around the room.

"Perhaps one of the most secure rooms in the entire palace, which is why I had the notion to take my breakfast here this morning. The 'other entrances' you spoke of, Myr; you will lead my chief bodyguard in a tour of them when we finish our discussion."

"I'd be happy to, Anora, but your larger problem is one of attitude. Of course your window and balcony door locks could use some attention; I could pick most of them with a hatpin if I wanted to." Myr shrugged. "But you need to have the palace guard better trained. They need to alter their patterns, they need to start paying attention to your servants and learn to recognize them, and they need to look_ up_. Getting rid of the captain is a good first move—he's a nitwit who only survived due to his personal friendship with the King. Speak with Guard-Captain Kylon; he knows the palace guard almost as well as his own, and will be able to point out the best replacement."

"Perhaps I should make him the captain of my palace guard, and have him promote his replacement in the city guard," Anora mused, tapping the arm of the chair with a lacquered fingernail.

"No," Myr disagreed, "you need to leave him right where he is; he'd be wasted commanding the palace guard. Promoting him to his current position was one of the smarter moves that your father made. He's an exceptionally talented man who has earned the respect of the nobles, commoners, and the elves. Your concessions are a good start, but they come too slowly for the elves and too quickly for the humans, and it's the city guard that deals with the inevitable conflicts. I don't know that anyone else could have kept the peace in the last few years other than Kylon."

Anora stared at Myr a long moment, then slowly relaxed. "I don't let many people speak to me the way you do, Myr. Very well; I'll leave him in place, and ask his advice about the palace guard."

"You didn't ask us here to discuss libraries and elven book-borrowers, did you, Anora?" Eren prompted after a moment.

"We now know that there were conversations going on between Celene and Eamon for a number of years concerning my suitability as a mate for Cailan and the possibility of a union with the Empress. I have received word from an acquaintance in Val Royeaux that suggests that now that Cailan is gone, there are those in Orlais that are looking at alternate methods of regaining their lost province."

"Do you have watchers on Eamon and Ceorlic yet?" Eren asked.

One corner of Anora's mouth curled slightly. "Perhaps," she allowed. "Of course one of the primary goals would be luring nobles to their cause. I also have a report from that acquaintance—corroborated by two others—that there are likely to be assassination attempts."

"We've foiled more than one in recent years. One more reason for getting your palace guard into proper shape," Myr said. "If I could sneak into the palace, a talented bard most likely could as well, and one is all that's needed."

"There is also word of a contract on you, Myr."

"What? Why Myr?" Eren demanded. "Why target the Warden-Commander, the person most responsible for ending the Blight and keeping it from spreading to their damn country?"

"I imagine the Orlesians would have preferred that we had allowed the darkspawn to more completely crush the army before we killed the Archdemon. Sloppy management on my part, no doubt," Myr said.

"It didn't sound as if they were targeting the Warden-Commander, but more the Hero of Ferelden," Anora replied.

Myr groaned. "One more reason that I wish popular opinion had paid more attention to the Dragonslayer, and let that Hero nonsense rest with your father."

"We can't always choose our epithets," Anora said wryly. "It seems that our friends to the west wish to destabilize Ferelden before sending in the army and Chevaliers, and ridding it of its Queen and Hero is a good start." She cocked her head slightly. "You seem to be taking this news rather calmly, Myr?"

"This is the third contract on my life in three years. I might be getting too blasé about them." Myr pressed her fingers into her temples, trying to ward off the gathering headache. "I will notify my Wardens and take all due precautions. I have too much to do to let some hired sword dump me in a hole. Anything else?"

"I have heard rumors of secondary targets; Teagan, Wulff, your brother, Eren. I also wouldn't assume that the assassins are all or even mostly bards. We have to assume Orlais will work with the Crows as well."

Eren nodded. "So they are starting with anyone overtly supportive of you or those that had strong ties to the Rebellion."

"Celene is also sending a delegation to Kirkwall. The best reason that I can think for her to do so is to make arrangements to let her warships through to attack by water as well as land." Myr and Eren glanced at each other surreptitiously. "There's no need to try to hide your time there, Myr; an acquaintance in Kirkwall reported that you were there for several days before returning to Ferelden with your new Warden."

"My, you do have a number of chatty acquaintances, do you not, Anora?" Eren raised an eyebrow.

"One does meet a number of people when one is Queen," she said with aplomb. "Will you be returning to Kirkwall soon to continue your search for the Architect, Myr?"

"I need to return to the Free Marches, yes. I imagine that I'll sail into Kirkwall."

"Then I would ask you to meet with the Viscount; explain to him..."

"The Wardens must remain as neutral politically as possible, Anora, you know that," Myr interrupted her. "I would undoubtedly do more harm than good in any case; I am no kind of diplomat."

"You're not completely unseasoned, Myr. Plus, you can offer the Viscount the one thing that none of my diplomats can—insight into his Qunari problem." Anora held up her hand. "I know you, Myr, better than you think. I know you can't just sit back and let the Orlesians wash over Ferelden and yoke your people like they do in Orlais. I'm not asking you to do anything to cripple Orlais or threaten the Warden interests there. I am asking you to make the Viscount aware of the true intentions of the Orlesians—to use your information, not your influence."

The silence stretched out as Myr swirled the dregs of coffee in her cup. "If I talk to the Viscount, I want the land of all of the Amaranthine conspirators, save Amaranthine City, transferred into my name—my name, not the Wardens. Those would be the lands of Lady Packton, Lord Guy and Lady Morag, and Ser Timothy, none of which have heirs that survived the conspiracy."

Anora's eyes narrowed as she tried to work out Myr's real purpose. "That is a relatively large payment for one conversation, Commander."

"If I were true landed gentry, I would have cause for recompense in light of the conspiracy. The parcels are not exceedingly large and many of the buildings on the properties took extensive damage from the darkspawn and have not been repaired. I will need to invest a very large amount of time and money into those farms to make them viable. Productive farms will help the Vigil to be self-supporting, which was one of your aims." Myr shrugged. "But feel free to send one of your diplomats to Kirkwall in my place, Anora. In fact, you might want to send a round dozen, to make sure one survives long enough to meet with the Viscount."

"Very well, we have an agreement. I will have the documents drawn up and ready by the time you leave Denerim." Anora stood; apparently the interview was concluded. "You can pick them up when you see me for the details on the Orlesian delegation before you leave for Amaranthine. Eren, a moment more of your time, please?"

Myr let herself out.

oOo

Eren didn't explain anything about her private meeting with Anora when they returned to the compound. Having a good idea as to the topic of the meeting between the widow Queen and the younger sister of the most powerful man in Ferelden, Myr left her to consider the matter in private. She wasted no time in explaining the assassination plot to the others, however, as it endangered all of them.

As she anticipated, Cyrion knocked at her door just as she had finished changing out of her armor after lunch. The silverite chain mail was shiny enough to get by for informal meetings at the palace, but it weighed at least half what Myr herself did, and chafed in uncomfortable places. She opened the door and waved him in. "I will take as much extra care as I can until we get to the bottom of these assassination contracts, Father."

"Myraene, if you anticipate everything I'm going to say, I can't get my fatherly worry properly vented." Cyrion forced a chuckle, which faded into a sigh. "At least you didn't start with another ploy to keep me in Ferelden. I expected something of the sort."

"No," Myr said softly. "As much as I hate the idea of you in danger because of me, I think that I can keep you safer if you're with me...and I gave you my word, as you so inconveniently reminded me."

"Your Grandfather Juril told me something once. 'As a parent', he said, 'you should strive to be loving, patient, and frequently inconvenient to your children'."

Myr chuckled. "Inconvenient, like when you caught Taeodor kissing me in the alley when I was 14, and you threatened to tear his skin off and nail it back on outside-in if he tried it again."

"Well, you are six years older now. I promise that I won't threaten any young men in Kirkwall that try to kiss you. Unless they're the sketchy sort."

"That's progress, I suppose."

oOo

"This is an odd way to get to the Alienage," Aene said in an undertone to Myr. "If we're going where I think we're going, I have to say I'm surprised that your father and the shem boy are along."

"It's barely noon, and we won't be making a tour of the back rooms. I doubt Sanga has a clothing-optional brunch."

Aene thought for a moment, counting on one hand. "It's Friday, yes? We should be fine."

Myr glanced back at her father as she reached for the door to the brothel to find him smirking and pointedly not looking at her. "This isn't what it looks like, Father. We only came here during the Blight to roust out some rowdy mercs. Oh, and to deal with a gang that were killing Warden sympathizers. Maybe one other time. But none of that kind of thing."

"Of course, Myraene," Cyrion agreed easily.

"It's the truth!"

"I've never doubted you, my daughter."

"Oh...blast."

"Myraene." He shook his head sadly. "What have I taught you about what your choice of language says to others?"

Myr started to reply, thought better of it, and led the way into the Pearl. The main room was almost empty at this time of day; a trio of mercenaries lounged at one table, laughing and belching, while two serving girls chatted with the bartender.

"Aene, so lovely to see you again! Myr, it's been too long." Sanga smiled and waved them to a table. "And again with your very large dog, wonderful."

"Sorry, Sanga, but we're on our way to the Alienage, and the children adore Mouse." Myr smiled apologetically.

"Very well." Sanga bent over to look the mabari in the eye. "Any unsanctioned sniffing and you're waiting outside. Do we have an understanding?" She straightened and nodded. "Silence means agreement. Now then, Myr, who are these lovely gentlemen and what might be your pleasure today?"

One of the mercenaries on the other side of the room started in on a loudly atonal version of 'The Fox' that had the bartender quickly sending one of the girls over with more ale in a transparent attempt at diversion.

"Carver Hawke, our newest Warden, and my father, Cyrion Tabris. Father, Carver, Sanga is the proprietress of the Pearl." Myr nodded at the men. "Sanga, could I speak with you privately for a moment?"

"Now, Myr. I told you on your very first visit that I wasn't available for that kind of thing anymore." Sanga winked broadly at Cyrion and laughed at Myr's expression. "Oh all right. Don't frown like that, sweet thing, you'll get wrinkles." She started to lead Myr in the direction of her office.

The serving girl had delivered the last of the ale and was flirting with the singing mercenary, a huge man with black whiskers that stuck out in all directions. The man whispered in her ear, and she abruptly jerked away from him. "Filthy pig!" she screeched and grabbed for one of the large flagons, pouring it over the stunned man's head.

The man surged to his feet, followed by his fellows, a tall, heavily-muscled man with long red braids and a one-eared elf with a crossbow. "You'll pay for that, whore!" The girl squeaked and ran to hide behind Sanga and Myr.

"Not again," Aene groaned as he, Carver and Cyrion drew weapons and moved into defensive positions. Mouse scrambled to his feet, growling and showing his large teeth.

Myr held up her hands. "Gentlemen!" she shouted over the noise. "Please return to your seats. This isn't worth..."

The red mottling on the bearded man's dripping face grew darker as he shook with fury. "Gah! Ahh!" He charged Myr, who threw herself to the side at the last moment and drew her weapons as he stumbled and fell to the floor in a semi-drunken heap. As Myr regained her feet, Cyrion and Aene drew and fired on the elf and the mercenary on the floor, seeking to disable rather than kill. Carver closed with the red-haired man, easily parrying his sloppy swings.

As Myr turned to get the serving girl to safety, the ale-soaked mercenary levered himself off the floor with a belligerent roar. Mouse growled loudly again and launched – at the serving girl, now with dagger in hand and lashing out at Myr's exposed throat with a feral grin. Before the dagger could connect, Mouse's jaws closed on the girl's arm. The dagger flew out of her grip as the huge dog pulled her, shrieking, to the floor, ripping at her arm. "Sanga, fetch something to tie her up," Myr called as she evaded the mercenary and dove on the girl's other arm. Aene aimed carefully and let fly, finding the gap in the plates at the back of the bearded man's knee. The man fell back to the floor, screaming and twisting in agony.

Tiring of avoiding the red-haired mercenary's increasing wild swings, Carver brought his huge sword down on the man's sword arm, breaking it and sending him crashing to the floor. His elven ally paused his firing; finding the odds suddenly and strongly against him, he dropped his bow on the table and spread his hands in surrender.

By the time Kylon and a detachment of the guard arrived, they had bandaged the assassin's crushed arm and questioned Sanga, her staff, and the mercenaries. Of the new girl, Sanga could only tell them that she claimed to have come from Gwaren, had no discernible non-native accent, and said she was trying to earn money to send to her father to help with their struggling farm. The mercenaries had been more than agreeable to provide some distraction for the assassin, at a price.

"Mistress Sanga, could you bring me the girl's possessions?" Kylon was asking as Myr joined them. The madame nodded and hurried off. "Are you alright Myr? You're not wounded?"

"I'm fine, Daniel, just a bit rattled is all. Anora told us of the plot, but I wasn't expecting to get attacked quite so soon."

"I'm sure you realize it, but they will keep coming after you until the contract is either revoked or fulfilled." Kylon squeezed her shoulder gently. "Please be careful, Myr."

Sanga returned with the few extra clothes, bits of jewelry and coins from the assassin's trunk. Kylon and Myr looked over the lot. "Not much here," the Captain noted, "but we'll examine it closer for any clues to the girl's origin."

"I'm so sorry, Sanga." Myr pressed a coin purse on the woman. "I'm just grateful that none of your people were injured by getting in between us and our new friend. I hope you can convince her to talk a bit, Daniel."

"We don't torture, of course, but we can make the lady's stay in Fort Drakon very uncomfortable indeed." Kylon smiled grimly. "If we elicit anything worthwhile, we will notify the Queen and your seneschal."

"What was it that you stopped by for anyway, Myr, if not for our elegant hospitality?" Sanga swept her arm to encompass the blood- and ale-spattered room.

"I was interested to hear if you had anything from any of your sources about any assassins skulking about the city." Myr smirked. "Heard anything, have you?"


	6. The Aristocrats

_Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. Special thanks to my excellent beta, mille libri, and her patient reminders when I forget all of my gramarye. _

**The Aristocrats**

"You seem positively aglow with anticipation of this evening's reception at Court, _lethallan._" Aene lounged on the settee in Myr's sitting room and watched Maynee perform some last-minute adjustments to the waist of Myr's gown.

There were few duties of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden that Myr looked forward to less than Court. Few that didn't involve dismembering darkspawn or the life-or-death gambles that were the Joinings, anyway. A talent for making inane small talk with foppish courtiers and ignoring the veiled or sometimes open insults from conceited noblemen wasn't necessarily a match with the skill set required of the Commander of the Grey. Certainly not in Myr's case.

"I'd rather clean the garderobes. From the bottom up," Myr said sullenly.

"You should save such enchanting topics of conversation for the palace, truly," Aene urged.

Myr laughed and greeted Eren, who had joined them in the sitting room. "I doubt that latrine humor would shock the nobles at this point; most still seem taken aback when I stride about on the two feet instead of four. My correct use of fork and spoon must have been the talk of the ladies' salons for months."

"Excellent! I haven't missed the overwrought hyperbole phase of the preparations." Eren sighed happily. "Rena had a time finding my shoes, so I thought I'd be late."

Myr rolled her eyes and turned back to the mirror. She frowned at the skinny girl in the steel blue silk, plucking at the gathered lace that accented the low neckline. "I'm not sure about the lace, May. Isn't it a little over-the-top?"

"It's there to give you the illusion of tits, since you won't let me pad what little you have. Now stand still." Maynee slapped at the errant hand.

"You look lovely, Myr," Eren said seriously.

"Next to you, I look like a twelve-year-old. A skinny elf girl with no breasts caught playing dress-up in a noblewoman's gown."

Maynee uttered a blistering curse and scowled at Myr in the reflection of the mirror. "If I wanted to hear that kind of self-indulgent whinging, I'd sign myself up as lady's maid for that horrifying spawn of Bryland's."

Myr sighed. "I'm sorry, May. I go through this tiresome wailing every time I need to wear one of these. You've done a wonderful job with the alterations. It's just the style of these heavy human dresses - I can't move and it makes me feel awkward."

"It's your own fault, since you won't let me make you some," Maynee grumbled as she stood back to survey her work.

"How many gowns do I need, when I only get to Denerim every year or so? I have a summer dress and a winter dress; the two suffice," Myr said.

"I'd be chary of expressing that opinion tonight if I were you, Myr." Eren laughed. "The ladies at Court would probably arrange a nice long stay in Fort Drakon for that little bit of heresy."

"What is your secret, Eren? You never seem the smallest bit annoyed or disinterested at Court, yet I know you don't enjoy it," Myr asked.

"Years of practice, my friend." Eren shrugged. "Well, that and a game that Delilah and I thought up to keep us from toppling over in boredom."

"Imagining everyone starkers?" Maynee snickered.

Myr sighed again. "Please tell me that's not it."

"What? No! May, you're a child." Eren shook her head. "No, we picked a different theme every time, say fish or household items or pudding, and tried to figure out what each attendee reminded us of most."

"You didn't ever lose track, and greet Cailan as Your Royal Cobbler?" Myr asked.

"I almost got caught out once on fish day, but I managed to convince Eamon that he misheard the added 'L' in his name. Fergus calls him Eelman to this day. No, Cailan was a meringue; sweet and simple and not very substantive." Eren handed Myr the flat velvet box she carried. "But this is why I stopped by."

Inside were two earrings, a ring and a necklace; sapphires and moonstones set in platinum. "Oh … oh my." Myr exhaled shakily. "Eren, I can't wear your mother's jewelry."

"You can and you will. It's taken a long time, but it's finally a comfort instead of a pang to see it and wear it." She ran her fingers over the ruby and jet necklace she wore. "If you like it, Myr, please wear it."

"The set is magnificent, thank you."

"You're done, Myr, and just in time," Maynee decreed. "If you two are going to get all weepy, I'm leaving. Lunch isn't sitting well the way it is."

oOo

Myr stood apart from the main crowd in the palace ballroom, chatting with Eren and Carver and exchanging empty pleasantries with passing nobles. The focus of attention was of course Queen Anora, who was conversing with Aene, Cyrion, and Bann Sighard.

Anora had gone out of her way to try to put the visibly nervous Carver at ease when Myr and her guests were introduced. Prepared in advance by Eren, Anora asked after his family in Kirkwall briefly, then drew him out on his early impressions of the Wardens. She seemed positively charmed by Cyrion, which hardly surprised his daughter. Possessing strong skills of diplomacy seemed to be a necessity for a noble's chief steward, particularly an elven one.

"Maker-forsaken dwarf, I can't stop seeing them all naked," Myr complained. "Let's go find a mage; I'm going to want to conjure a few snakes in Maynee's bed when we get back to the compound."

"The only one I see is Irving, but it looks like Greagoir's glower is keeping even the most courageous nobles at bay." Eren nodded at the far corner.

"Good thing I am not most people." Myr took Carver's arm. "Come along if you will, Warden; this might be your only chance to view two of Ferelden's surviving artifacts."

"First Enchanter, Knight-Commander; I wasn't expecting to see you at Court." Myr inclined her head politely. "I'd like to introduce you both to our newest Warden, Carver Hawke. Carver, First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir lead the Ferelden Circle at Kinloch Hold."

"Warden-Commander. Wardens." Greagoir would never be counted a friend of the Wardens, Myr thought privately. Over his strong objections, four mages had joined their ranks during his tenure; of those four, only Finn still served. Carver's cousin Delia died at her joining, and Imriel Surana just weeks after his. Anders, of course, was in Kirkwall. Whether that was known to either of the men was uncertain.

"Warden-Commander, Warden Eren, always a pleasure. Warden Carver, pleased to meet you." Irving smiled and bowed slightly. "Greagoir and I are in Denerim for some discussions with Her Majesty. Among other topics, she is interested in the progress of the changes we've implemented at the Tower following the Blight."

"The First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander have invited the families of the mages and Templars to have more contact with them at the Tower," Myr told Carver, "and are starting to have enchanters accompany the Templars when they go to bring in a new apprentice."

"Having an experienced mage with a history at the Tower can often help calm a frightened child. Frequently, new mages are not only trying to deal with strange new powers that have only just emerged, but sudden fear from their families and friends, and what is often the first separation they've had from their family," Irving explained. "We've drastically lowered the incidence of injury and accidental death amongst both new mages and Templars. Both initiatives have been very successful, and so we hope to see more in the future."

"But what if the mage child doesn't want to go to the Tower?" Carver asked. "Doesn't having another mage who will likely sympathize with them make things more difficult and dangerous for the Templars?"

"We allow only the most trusted senior mages to accompany our Templars," Greagoir replied curtly. "Mages that have shown their dedication to the Tower and its essential mission."

Irving nodded at Carver's forehead. "That's a fierce wound, Warden. Why haven't you had one of your healers take care of it for you?"

"Healers, Irving?" Myr fought the urge to smile. The First Enchanter couldn't have given her a better opening if she had scripted it. "We have but the one, Finn. As extraordinary as his gifts are, we are in desperate need of others, along with combat mages."

"Absolutely not!" Greagoir thundered, then flushed a deep red as every eye in the grand ballroom came to rest on him. "Absolutely not," he repeated in a lower yet still-emphatic tone. "Apart from Finn, you took in two criminals, as well as our most trusted senior enchanter and the brightest of our crop of young mages. Two are now dead, and the other two have vanished."

"I don't need to ask, Greagoir, if you have forgotten that inconvenient fact," Myr said bluntly. "And Wynne has not vanished; she is in Tevinter, as you well know. As for Delia and Imriel," Myr swallowed thickly, "it was a Blight, and in a Blight, people die. I'll remind you that I'm not the only one here to have lost charges in the course of that terrible year."

Greagoir flinched and looked away. Irving sighed and raised his hands for calm. "Perhaps this is not a fit subject for an evening at Court. Warden Carver, if you wish it, I would be pleased to heal that gash for you? It would require only a moment in private."

Carver glanced at Myr, then back at Irving. "I … thank you, but you don't need to trouble yourself, First Enchanter."

"It would prevent your wound from getting infected, Carver, but it's entirely up to you," Myr said.

"I suppose you're right, Commander. Thank you, First Enchanter." Carver, Eren and Myr followed the two old men to an empty antechamber.

"Now then, Commander …" Greagoir growled.

"I must apologize, Greagoir. I let my sense of responsibility for my Wardens override decorum and good sense," Myr said. "What is more, your concerns about unsupervised mages are well-taken. To that end, I would like to discuss with you the possibility of recruiting one or more Templars of your training, to replace the two from Weisshaupt that died in that terrible conflict with Anders. The Siege of Denerim showed all of us just how vital Templars are in combating darkspawn mages."

"Oh. Well, then. I regret that I, too, let my emotions get the better of me." Greagoir bowed slightly. "Templars as Warden recruits, you say? We are still rebuilding our numbers after the Blight, but I admit that I would feel better about Warden mages should there be a degree of oversight."

"Are you saying that you will allow us to recruit, then?" Myr asked carefully.

"Well I can hardly stop you, as you said." Greagoir frowned, then turned to Irving impatiently. "Are you finished yet, Irving? I'm going to find a wine steward. I require fortification if the evening continues in this vein for several more hours." He left them.

Irving lifted his hand from Carver's forehead. "I'm afraid that you'll have a small scar, Warden, from the days of natural healing. But I imagine that the young ladies might find it rather dashing."

"Oh, uh, thank you, First Enchanter." Carver found a spot on the floor to study.

"Happy to help, Warden." Irving glanced at the door that Greagoir had just exited and lowered his voice. "Please see me before you leave the city, Myr. Her Majesty told us that you are sailing for Kirkwall soon. We've heard some conflicting reports about some unusual practices and restrictions in the Kirkwall Circle, instituted by their very zealous Knight-Commander."

"Irving, you know we can't get involved in political struggles."

"Just come speak with me, Myr; I won't ask you to swear to anything. I just wish to give you what information I have, so that you can be prepared if Meredith or Orsino try to involve you in their affairs."

"Very well. Tomorrow, then."

"That was nice work with Greagoir, letting him rant a bit about recruiting more mages, then accede to reasonable Templar oversight. He didn't need to know we wished to recruit a couple already." Eren remarked after the First Enchanter had left them.

"Psychological manipulation of tired old men—just another weapon in the arsenal of the successful Warden-Commander," Myr replied grimly. "I think I need this evening to end before I lose the last shreds of my dignity."

oOo

The visit to the Alienage had been rescheduled to the day following Court at Cyrion's suggestion. One that Myr had thought wise, given the liberal amount of blood that had decorated their clothes and armor after their visit to the brothel.

Cyrion, Carver, and Mouse trailed a bit behind Myr and Aene. Carver seemed distracted, and fell farther and farther behind the other Wardens as they walked, missing several turns on the way. After the second time that he gently corrected the young man's course, Cyrion decided some intervention might be in order. "Something on your mind, Carver?"

Carver started in surprise, colliding with an ancient, humpbacked woman in widow's weeds. He caught her before she fell and set her carefully back on her feet, receiving a sharp poke in the ribs from her cane for his effort. He smiled wryly at Cyrion and rubbed his side as the crone toddled away, muttering to herself. "It's nothing. After we were at the Pearl …" Carver shook his head and flushed a deep red. "I mean, it's really nothing."

"Oh? My mistake, then," Cyrion said with an easy smile. "Myraene tells me that you're coming along well in your archery training. Are you enjoying it?"

"Bit of an awkward change of subject."

Cyrion chuckled at the blend of surprise and slight annoyance on the younger man's face. "I try to take people at their word, Carver. You sounded like you were regretting saying anything at all."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Of course."

Cyrion turned his attention back to the warren of dilapidated homes and the makeshift lean-tos housing dogs, chickens, and the occasional tramp. Young mothers chattered and watched over their children, old women dug in their dooryard vegetable patches, groups of hard-eyed teenage boys watched the armed group as they passed. Cyrion doubted that any of the humans recognized his daughter or Aene, but their air of calm confidence seemed to warn off those who might normally give even armed elves a bit of trouble.

Carver was mumbling again. "I wasn't about to make those kinds of arrangements with the Commander standing right there, anyway."

"I imagine that the Wardens are at liberty in the city, yes? Keeping in mind Captain Kylon's admonition about not going anywhere alone."

"I wasn't …" Carver sighed in defeat. "All right, yes; I was thinking of visiting the Pearl before we left for the Vigil. But I didn't really fancy any of the ladies there." Carver's eyes flicked to the elf and then back to the street. "And the Commander is going to rip my head off for talking with her father about a brothel."

"I must tell you that I am familiar with the services generally offered at brothels, Carver. Contrary to popular lore, elves do not pluck their offspring from magic grape vines or happen upon them amongst the cabbages."

Carver laughed and seemed to relax slightly. "It's just a bit peculiar, is all. There was a girl that I liked at the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall, that I would, ah, _see_ sometimes." He stopped and frowned suspiciously. "This whole Warden thing better not have messed that up. The Commander didn't say a word about anything like that."

Cyrion laughed. "Being a Warden certainly hasn't diminished Aene's appetite appreciably, from what I understand." He looked up at the tall young man. "Perhaps you're simply becoming more discerning. What do you appreciate in a woman?"

"Well, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like pretty girls." Carver grinned and shrugged. "Someone kind, not like that shrew that Myr is taking along to Kirkwall."

"Maynee is a sweet child; a bit rough around the edges, perhaps."

"Yes. Exactly as a starving wolverine is a bit rough around the edges," Carver muttered under his breath. "I suppose I like girls that have a good sense of humor. Easy-going; not like they're making fun of you, more like they're trying to see the humor in daily life."

"Someone that might laugh a bit when you're in a state, but not in an unkind way. Someone that won't take offense at a bit of clumsiness when you try to express your appreciation or admiration," Cyrion suggested with a smile.

Carver groaned. "You were there as well, weren't you? The night before we left the Vigil."

"I helped a bit, was all. It's not anything that hasn't happened to all of us a time or two, Carver. Denel should never have offered you so much; lichen ale is very strong."

"Shit, shit, shit!" Carver swore sulfurously. "I can't believe I tried to kiss her. Sigrun's a Warden, not a camp follower. A Senior Warden - _my_ senior. Maker, I hope she just forgets about it and puts it down to drunken idiocy."

"Are you sure that is what you would prefer? That she forget about it?"

"Of course it …" Carver stopped and seemed to be giving the question serious consideration. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Bollocks."

oOo

Myr hadn't noticed the large human laborer with the hand-cart full of turnips bearing down on them until Aene picked her up bodily and set her down out of its path. "What - oh, where was I? Sorry, I was thinking assassins and mages."

"Trying to out-maneuver assassins by paying no attention to your surroundings would seem to be a losing strategy." Aene frowned at her.

Myr flushed and nodded, accepting the rebuke. "Of course you're right, Aene. It's been almost a year since the last time someone tried to assassinate me, but that's no excuse for letting my habits lapse, and there's no reason to believe that the Bards or Crows won't follow me to Kirkwall."

"Should you make it that far," Aene grumbled under his breath. "At least the news is better on the mage front. I was beginning to doubt those old fossils would ever agree to give us access to recruit. I'll take Finn with me and leave for the Tower in a few weeks. Speaking of which, you weren't thinking of having Chantry-trained Templars stationed at the Peak, I hope."

"Yes, because I have gone completely off my crumpet. I thought it might be fun to take bets on whether the Templars could get Avernus's head lopped off before he melted the keep into slag or sundered the Veil again." Myr shook her head. "Ideally, we'd find Templar candidates that would be willing to teach you and Perth, maybe Keenan, in some basic mage-containment techniques."

"I'd sleep better at night, anyway, in case that old bastard goes completely potty and decides to make us all into pudding or wall hangings or what have you." He checked to make sure Cyrion and Carver were still following, and smirked at Myr. "It looks like your father has taken another one under his wing."

Myr glanced back to find the two men deep in conversation. "If Mother had lived, I suspect that I would have a great many sisters and brothers. If my being a Warden has caused him a great deal of anxiety and pain, at least there are compensations—almost a dozen of them now." She smiled and went back to scanning windows and doorways for watchers.

"Speaking of compensation or the lack of it, I must tell you that your planned offer to the elves still makes me very uncomfortable. To make a call for more prospective Wardens, yes; we are dreadfully low on qualified candidates. But to invite our people to submit to indenture, and to _shemlen …_"

Myr sighed. "I didn't imagine you would like the idea, and I'd be lying if I said that I was entirely comfortable with it myself. But it isn't a true indenture situation, and I didn't have the opportunity to finish telling you about it before we were interrupted the other night."

"I fail to see how working for _shemlen_ farmers for a set number of years for the purpose of learning their trade would not be considered indenture." Aene frowned.

"Anyone that wishes to apprentice to one of Lord Eddelbrek's or Ser Derren's tenant farmers in exchange for reasonable labor—meaning no more than ten to twelve hours a day with regular breaks and hearty meals—will receive a hide of land on one of my new properties after a suitable number of years. It is strictly voluntary, those with families will be accommodated, anyone can quit at any time and return to Denerim, and the Wardens and the most trusted of our soldiers will stop in randomly to ensure that the terms are being met on both sides."

Aene eyes narrowed. "What of those that return to Denerim? They'd be returning to no home and no job, if they had one."

"I had already planned on keeping up the rent for those that take the opportunity, which would in turn provide temporary housing for others if needed. I can't replace a lost job, but those are few and far between in the best of times, so I think that there are those who will want to take the risk."

"I think you'll have a number who will be interested right away, and possibly more that will wait to see if the first are successful." Cyrion confirmed in a quiet voice. He and Carver had closed the distance and heard the last of the discussion.

"You know, I am chronically short of workers for the restoration work at the Peak," Aene mused. "Glavonak and his two masons could use apprentices, as could the grooms and herdsmen. I also want to build greenhouses and cold frames for fresh vegetables."

"And?" Myr raised one eyebrow.

"And I believe that I'll offer a number of positions as alternatives for those of our people that don't wish to work for your human farmers," Aene answered with a smile.

"Don't you dare steal my elves, Mahariel!" Myr snapped. "Sorry, Father; you know what I meant."

"I believe so, Myraene. However, I think you might be worrying unnecessarily. I doubt that you will have any problem finding those that are willing to take a chance on a position outside the city, especially one that might lead to land of their own, or a permanent position at the Peak." Cyrion started walking again. "Some may choose to join the Dalish in our new land in the Brecilian Forest, but not many, at least at first. Until the clans begin to build more permanent structures, our brethren will be uneasy with the more nomadic lifestyle. Many will stay in the city, and I wish them luck. But a chance for a new beginning with a trade and a place of their own? Well, we shall see."

oOo

It was much as Cyrion had foreseen.

Elves packed the central square and hung out of convenient windows to see the Wardens and hear their offers and counter-offers. As much as Myr believed in her plan, the actual presentation was deeply distressing. The distance that she felt between herself and her people had only widened in the years since the end of the Blight, and now to stand before them much as a noble dangling the promise of money for toil was not something that she would choose to repeat.

Their Bann was even less pleased than Myr was thinking she'd be. Shianni held forth in the tiny kitchen of what was once Cyrion's apartment, now home to Soris, his wife, and their newborn daughter, who was sleeping in Cyrion's arms. Carver stood wedged in the corner, looking uncomfortable.

"Hush, Shianni. If you wake my namesake early from her nap, Valora will tear you a new one. Decorously, of course, which sort of makes it worse." Myr smiled at the slumbering baby with the wispy blond curls.

"Many newborns can sleep through almost anything, Myraene. Here you go." Cyrion deposited the child in Myr's arms before she could demur or even open her mouth. Myr froze and held her tiny cousin awkwardly out in front of her, like a bundle of rags.

"Have you never held a baby, Commander?" Carver chuckled. "Even I know that you need to hold them close in, to keep them warm and so they can hear your breathing or whatever."

"Hah! Even the _shem_ kid knows more about babies than you, Myr. You'll be doomed when you have your own." Shianni laughed and poured herself more coffee.

Carver's face flushed in anger; whether from the slur or the reference to Myr having children of her own, Myr wasn't sure. Shianni wasn't privy to any Warden secrets, so there was no way she could know that Myr would likely never have children. "Please don't use that word, Shianni. Carver is a Warden, and has shown himself to be a valuable recruit."

"You know I don't mean anything by it, Myr, don't be so sensitive." Shianni waved off the concern.

"I hope your fellow nobles realize the same," Myr said drily.

"Anyway, quit trying to dodge the issue. How did you think I would react to you and that Dalish trying to make off with so many of our youngest and healthiest people? I can hardly stop you, but that doesn't mean that I have to be happy about it. You already accepted two of our young men as Wardens last year." One of whom did not survive, a fact which Myr did not disclose to her oldest friend.

"First, his name is 'Aene' or 'Mahariel' or 'Warden', not 'that Dalish', Shianni," Myr corrected. "Second, even with the legal protections Anora has instituted and your voice in the Landsmeet, change is very slow. Third, those that have come forward so far are hardly all young. Take Asa Prendel; the man is well into his sixties, has always wanted to learn about growing and using herbs, and has as lovely and precise a hand as any scribe I've seen. He's delighted at the opportunity to be fed and housed while he learns, and equally delighted by the chance to teach his art to other elves, instead of vapid human nobles." Myr stopped and sighed. "And I do it myself. Sorry, Carver."

The young man laughed at that. "I've said far worse of them myself, Commander, so no worries from this front."

"Thank you for your understanding." Myr turned back to her cousin. "The point is, Shi, that for all of our people that want to stay in the city and in the Alienage and who value the community more than anything, there have always been those that have yearned to leave, but yet don't embrace the nomadic life. This is their opportunity."

Shianni finally sighed and nodded slowly. "I guess I know that, and should be pleased. But the thought of a hundred or more of our people moving away permanently? That's a bitter pill."

Myr embraced her cousin a bit awkwardly around the baby in her arms, holding her away after a moment to look at her. "I know. That's why you're our bann."

oOo

Myr waited in the shade under the _vhenedhal_ while Aene spoke with the last of the men and women who had expressed interest in work at Soldier's Peak. Taking care to avoid Mouse's favored area of the trunk, she relaxed against the tree and closed her eyes.

"It was bad enough to need to hide, Myraene?" Cyrion's quiet voice came from her left.

"I'm not hiding. I'm … cooling off in the shade."

"It's only mid-Cloudreach, not August," Cyrion reminded her with a chuckle.

Myr was silent for several minutes. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at her father. "I'm not Myr anymore; nor Myraene Tabris. I'm not even quite an elf any more—I'm a figurehead." She laughed humorlessly. "Maker! Listen to me snivel."

"Rest assured that I will inform you should I witness any of that, Myraene. Sniveling gives me heartburn." Cyrion put an arm around her shoulders. "Is it truly so strange that feelings of separation from those with whom you grew up upsets you?"

Myr considered the question seriously. "I suppose not." She looked over the bustling square, consciously trying to commit the faces, colors, even the sounds and smells to memory.

A gust of wind from the east brought the clean smell of the sea with it and fluttered clothes on the lines strung from building to building. Across the square, Alarith's niece was selling her fresh-baked bread from a table set up outside his shop. A group of young women chatted near the gathering stage; nearby, Mouse gave Myr a long-suffering look from the bottom of a pile of squirming toddlers. "Why does this seem like goodbye, Father?"

Cyrion said nothing for a long moment. Finally he sighed softly. "It may be, my Myraene."

* * *

><p><em>The conflict between Anders and the Templars that Myr refers to is detailed in the pre-DA2 short story by Jennifer Hepler. In this timeline, they are sent to the Vigil just after the battle with the Mother, conveniently when Myr was out of the country, having been recalled to Weisshaupt for questioning about the Architect.<em>


	7. The Goodbye Girl

_Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. Special thanks as always to my beta, mille libri, for the great suggestions and for finding all of those AWOL articles._

**The Goodbye Girl**

Myr reclined against the trunk of an oak tree, perched on a thick branch overlooking a clearing in the forest surrounding Vigil's Keep, a short bow in her lap. She took a break from scanning the forest to watch Mouse, preoccupied with a small cloud of Fritillary butterflies that were trying their best to land for their breakfast. He leaped and yipped, periodically breaking off for a gallop around the edge of the small clearing or a roll in a patch of what Myr sincerely hoped was mud.

The early-morning fog had lifted, leaving the meadow grass and ferns sodden and sparkling. The cool air was heavy with the scent common to the northern Ferelden forests; an herbal mix of evergreens, heather and lavender that Myr had encountered nowhere else. She was finding it difficult to stir from her place on the branch, though she had little enough time to squander this morning. There were only a few days left at the Vigil before Myr, her father, and Maynee would leave for the Free Marches, for what was likely to be an extended stay.

The journey home from Denerim was uneventful, although considering the assassins and would-be kidnappers that had featured prominently in recent events, Myr was grateful for the lack of excitement. The notes and greetings that she had grudgingly agreed to carry to Viscount Dumar of Kirkwall on Anora's behalf were sealed and hidden in the bottom of her pack. The apprenticeship arrangements with the Denerim elves and the plans for recruitment at the Circle Tower were progressing slowly, but would continue as well without Myr's presence as with it.

A pair of doves burst noisily from cover some distance back along the trail to the Vigil. Myr nocked an arrow silently; Mouse continued his play, though his raised ears showed he was listening intently. With the wind steady from the west, he wouldn't be able to scent the newcomers until they were almost upon them.

They were trying to be stealthy. Myr thought there were two, one considerably more adept at silent passage than the other. At least one if not both were human; even an alienage-raised elf would not have moved with the heaviness of step of the latter. Not bards or Crows, either, unless Zevren truly had killed his way through everyone remotely competent in Antiva, and Celene's bards had all taken vows or poisoned each other.

Myr smiled and put up her bow as the pair came into view. Nathaniel was walking ahead, alert and watchful, making no sound as he carefully chose his route along the deer path. Eren followed, studying his movement – how he walked, where he put his feet – and tried to copy it as best she could.

Nathaniel picked out Myr in seconds, despite the shadows thrown by the wide trunk and her dark clothing. He stepped aside to let Eren precede him into the clearing, but said nothing. Mouse greeted the pair enthusiastically, then returned to his butterfly-bothering. Eren's gaze swept past the tree that Myr crouched in without a sign that she had been spotted.

"Myr must be scouting deeper in the forest?" Eren took Nathaniel's hand and kissed the tips of his fingers.

"Hmm." Nathaniel allowed himself to be led to a downed tree; his wife smiled and climbed onto his lap. "I'm not sure that ..."

"This is a lovely little glade. It's nice to be away from people for a while." Eren sighed happily and nuzzled his neck. "Maybe we could come back here next week? Pack up some sandwiches and wine; just you, me, and some warm ..."

Nathaniel choked and lifted Eren off his lap. "Myr! Please join us. Er, I didn't mean _join_ us …" He swore and cleared his throat. "I'm pleased that we found you."

Eren frowned at Myr as she scrambled down the trunk. "You could've let us know you were there, you know."

"Nathaniel knew." Myr smirked as Eren turned a raised eyebrow on her husband. "You're progressing in your surveillance and infiltration skills, Eren, but you need to remember to look up. Remembering that one thing will immediately put you ahead of eighty percent of the guards who have been at their profession for years."

Nathaniel motioned Eren to the fallen tree again. "Of course these skills take years to refine to Myr's or my level, but the basics benefit anyone of any specialty, at any level."

"No false modesty, Nathaniel." Myr smiled. "Speaking of basic skills, how are you progressing with the greatsword?"

"Your man Carver didn't laugh at me, anyway, not like Aene did the first time I sparred with him." He shrugged. "I'll never give up my bow and daggers, but he and Perth think that with time, I might manage a better-than-even chance of leaving my limbs and those of my fellow Wardens unsevered, in the event of battle."

"That being one of the goals of these cross-training exercises, after all—intact limbs, no arrows in stray kneecaps and no falling off walls onto one's head," Eren agreed.

"At least Aene only laughed at you, Nathaniel. He threw up his hands and took his sword back after a half-hour of watching me try to swing it. It kept pulling me off balance and I almost split myself down the middle. It doesn't seem to give him a problem, though. I maintain that no elf has a right to be almost six feet tall—it's unnatural." Myr's grin faded. "As long as you both are here, we might as well speak now instead of this afternoon. I want to talk to you about the leadership of the Wardens."

"I thought you might," Nathaniel said in an odd tone.

"You know that I cannot remain an effective Warden-Commander with a sea between myself and my Wardens; not when I will likely be away for several months if not a year," Myr said.

"Reasonable." He nodded slowly.

"You have concerns, Nathaniel?"

He seemed to come to a decision. "It is not my place, but if I say nothing, I will regret it. Of your most senior Wardens, Aene and Denel are both returning to the Peak after you leave for the Marches, which leaves Eren." Myr opened her mouth, but he waved her silent. "We can leave aside the question of qualifications, as we both know that my wife would make a tremendously effective Warden-Commander. But while this Warden would be honored to serve Commander Eren, this husband cannot help having some concerns, not the least of which are the recently-revealed assassination plots."

"If you will hear me out, Nathaniel?" Myr turned to Eren. "Eren's great strengths have always been in organizing people and resources, negotiations with the nobility, and providing for her people. In short, the duties and privileges of a Teyrna or Arlessa; a role for which she has trained from birth."

"Yes, and …" Nathaniel tried to interrupt; Myr waved him silent.

"The Warden-Commander, on the other hand, is first and foremost a warleader, someone who has trained in the art of combat most of their lives, enjoys it, and enjoys training others in those arts. Someone who can remain focused on the war against the darkspawn, who can devote all of their energies to that one purpose." She shrugged. "Due to some rather pressing issues, I can't say that was the case for my tenure—at least not the first year. Luckily I had an extremely gifted Seneschal who took care of virtually all of the administrative duties, and some remarkable fellow Wardens and friends who took care of ancillary matters better than I could have myself. I won't, however, delude myself into thinking it was an ideal situation."

Nathaniel and Eren looked at each other, then Myr, as if not yet completely sure of the direction of her thoughts.

"If the Commander of the Grey is married, their wife or husband will hold the title of Arlessa or Arl, just as the Commander will. Especially in these tumultuous times, how much better to have the spouse of the new Warden-Commander be someone who has trained for that position her entire life?"

Nathaniel's eyes grew wide. "You're suggesting..."

"Nathaniel, you were vital to every step of the campaign against the Architect and the Mother. You were at your sister's side through much of the early rebuilding effort in Amaranthine. You saved Eren's brother from those bandits last winter."

"That wasn't just me; you and Denel and Sigrun were all part of the rescue as well," Nathaniel pointed out.

"Well, you know how it is, Nathaniel," Myr said with a small smile. "People tend to remember one person more than a group of people. Fergus seemed very impressed when I told him how you tracked the bandits over bare rock and running water, and never gave up the chase. He owes you his life."

"You were _planning_ this, even then," he accused.

"Before, actually. When the Architect escaped, I knew that I would need to follow. That meant that my tenure as Warden-Commander would by necessity be a brief one." Myr smiled. "It isn't a sinecure by any stretch of the imagination, but I can think of no one to whom I could better entrust the lives of the best people I know."

"Nor can I." Eren smiled and kissed him.

"I … think I need time to sort this all out," Nathaniel said quietly.

"Of course, Nathaniel." Myr grinned and beckoned to Mouse. "We have three entire days until the ship leaves."

oOo

The official leadership turnover meeting was productive, if sobering. There was no foreseeable end to the tasks involved in rebuilding the Ferelden Wardens. Banned for two hundred years and then consumed with a Blight and a Thaw for the last several, it was only very recently that they were able to turn their attention to long-term recruitment and stabilization plans. Nathaniel had his work cut out for him.

The unofficial leadership turnover meeting was rather notable for its lack of sobriety. Myr had a brief internal debate regarding the wisdom of heavy consumption the evening before a day's ride followed by a sea voyage. In the end she shrugged off the concern; it was doubtful that she could be any worse off than her last two times on board a ship. Helpful to a fault, her Wardens seemed to be engaged in a competition to see how often and to what degree they could surreptitiously spike whatever Myr lifted to her lips, which helped considerably in the shrugging process.

_The_ Wardens, she supposed; not _her_ Wardens anymore, even figuratively. A new Commander meant a period of flux as people coped with changes in leadership style and altered relationships. These were exceptional people, however; the best of the best. It wouldn't take long before the dynamics were sorted and they were working with each other as well as or better than they always had.

Nathaniel still appeared a bit wild-eyed at his sudden elevation; since the public announcement earlier that day, he seemed distracted, almost pensive. Finally, after a hefty amount of a Starkhavian whisky of which he was fond, he appeared at Myr's elbow, hand-in-hand with Eren. "I don't know any jokes," he stated flatly, not looking at Myr.

"Uh," Myr rejoined. She shook her head and tried again. "Pardon?"

"You're always joking, putting people at ease." Nathaniel frowned.

"I'm, um … sorry?"

The new Commander's scowl deepened, and he downed the remainder of his drink. Finally the subtext filtered through Myr's inebriation. "Nathaniel, I think you may need to look more to Sigrun and your own wife for the constant wisecrackery. But if you're asking for a bit of advice, I'd suggest that you play to your strengths. You're an exemplary straight man; you may find that the best way of helping your Wardens through this transition and putting them at ease is to continue doing exactly what you are already."

"A straight man," he repeated.

"Nathaniel, my love, I think you've played the role that Myr refers to your entire life," Eren said. "Let's go find Sigrun and I'll show you." She led him off.

"You made an excellent choice in successor, Commander. Nathaniel is extremely competent and calm in a crisis, if a trace on the serious side." Myr turned at Varel's approach. She peered up at him, trying to find any trace of the heavy irony that should have accompanied that statement. He looked momentarily confused. "Did I somehow give offense, Commander?"

Myr started to shake her head vigorously in negation, and just as quickly decided that wasn't a good idea after all. "No, not at all, Varel. I'm just a bit surprised to hear you venture that sort of opinion. You tend to the ordered side of the ledger yourself."

"Me, Commander?" he said with a ghost of a smile.

"You know, it's probably incorrect for you to call me that now," Myr reminded him.

"I have consulted the Warden diaries; there is no term for a former Warden-Commander. Most likely because there has never before been a living former Commander. When the First Warden advises me of the proper protocol, I will adjust my terminology accordingly."

"Still, I'd invite you to call me Myr as everyone else does, Varel."

"I appreciate the courtesy, Commander. I will take that under advisement."

Myr snickered and found a half-empty bottle of wine. She filled Varel's glass and added a small splash to her own, then waved him to the chairs near the fireplace. "I need to sit down for a bit before I fall on my head. I also wanted a chance to thank you for everything you've done while I was away. I know it's highly unusual for a Warden-Commander to be away from her country and her Wardens for months at a time, but with your excellent management, I doubt anyone even noticed."

"Thank you, Commander. It was my very great pleasure to assist, as it has been to work with you every day of the past two years."

"For me as well, Varel." Myr smiled, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes.

A hand and arm appeared from behind Myr's chair to pour a healthy dose of a honey-colored liquid from a small flask into Myr's wine glass. "If you can still make recognizable words, you aren't drunk enough yet." Sigrun laughed and winked at Varel.

"Why? Why must you try to kill me?" Myr sniffed the liquor, then took a small sip. "Hmm. Not too … Holy Maker!"

"Something wrong, Boss?" Sigrun took a long pull from the flask. "Ooo! I need to try this out on the mage." She grinned and skipped off towards the library nook, where Finn was speaking with Aene and Cyrion. Denel and Carver joined Myr and Varel, Carver's gaze following Sigrun as she moved off.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Myr, not bringing any of the Wardens with you to the Free Marches," Denel said without preamble.

"Denel, we've talked about this, several times."

"Forgive me, Commander, but I must agree with Warden Denel. You will need allies beside you when you find the Architect." To Myr's knowledge, it was the first time that Varel had ever contradicted her in public. "In the more immediate sense, you may find it difficult to gather needed supplies and assistance. Here you are the Hero of Ferelden; you transcend your sex, your background, and your race to a great degree. But there, despite your almost unimaginable accomplishments, you will be seen differently. A hero to be sure, but an _elven_ hero from an unimportant, backwater country."

"I realize that, Varel, but that doesn't change what I need to do."

"Of course not. But a human associate might be of great benefit in a land where elves are treated even worse than they are in Ferelden," Varel replied gently.

Denel frowned. "Surely a human intermediary can be hired to perform purchasing and other such transactions if needed. What Myr needs is strong combat reinforcement."

Varel straightened in his chair. "All the better, then, to select someone who can provide both."

"Thank you, gentlemen. But I'm taking only Maynee and Father, as I said." Myr held up one hand for silence. "Nathaniel needs every Warden he has right now. There are still at least two large breaches to be permanently sealed, and we need to step up recruitment. Also, because Nathaniel's father was who he was, we need visibility in Amaranthine and around the countryside to show that the new Arl is entirely his own man and, apart from his facial profile, owes nothing to the former. The former minus one, that is," Myr corrected herself.

"And when you find the Architect?" Denel demanded. "You and Maynee do not an army make."

"Nor is an army what will be called for at that point," Myr said quietly. "But I do take your point. When I find enough reliable leads to the Architect's whereabouts, I will contact Nathaniel."

"I suppose that's better than nothing. Just remember to give us sufficient lead time. There is a large chunk of that ugly son of a bitch with my name on it, and if I don't get to carve it out myself, I will be _dismayed_." Denel tossed back the rest of his drink and gave Varel a clout on the shoulder. "Show me where you're hiding the real booze, old man."

Carver gingerly took Varel's vacated chair. "Would you have room in your trunk for two small items for my mother and brother, Comm … Myr? Dammit. I'll have that down by the time you're back; it's Varel that throws me off."

Myr laughed. "Certainly, Carver. Just leave them with me tomorrow morning."

"Mother loves this particular South Reach sheeps-milk cheese, and can't get it outside of Ferelden."

"It's thoughtful of you to remember it for her."

"She reminded me seven times on our last day in Kirkwall, left one note tucked in a sock, and another pinned to a pair of smalls. Even I can remember something if you remind me a dozen or so times." Carver shrugged.

"Dare I ask what you are sending your brother?"

"There was a small stand outside the Gnawed Noble selling painted wooden griffons. They set up every time the Wardens are in Denerim, the man said."

"Is Perren interested in the Wardens?"

"Not particularly. Just ... a change of crests, I suppose." Carver said thoughtfully. "But speaking of the Wardens, I, uh, just wanted to thank you before you left. This is an opportunity that I don't intend to mess up."

"I'm very glad that you see it as such. Recruiting isn't something that we do lightly, since it can be so disruptive to recruits and their families. You've already impressed your fellow Wardens, and that isn't easy to accomplish."

"Still with the multisyllabic words, Myr?" Sigrun appeared at Carver's side, shaking her head disapprovingly. She deposited a goblet of something pale and yellow in front of Myr. "Redcliffe Ginger Mead; smooth as baby butt."

Myr sniffed it carefully. "It smells like fire."

Sigrun threw up her hands. "So much for trust between sisters. Pfft." She rested one hand on Carver's shoulder casually and he froze. "Did you give Myr the griffon for your brother, Carver? I wish you would rethink the rider; the griffon needs its Warden."

"Rider?" Myr chuckled. "A tiny wooden Warden for the tiny griffon? Sounds kind of cute."

"I knew you'd think so!" Sigrun fished a small figure out of her pocket and handed it to Myr. "I bought out the store, so everyone can have a tiny Boss to remind them to eat their peas and work hard at arms practice."

"No. It can't possibly …" The miniature Myr was dressed in a crude version of her terribly heavy parade silverite armor, and was armed with twin daggers no larger than grains of rice. "What's wrong with my armor? It looks like I'm trying to smuggle a pair of pumpkins in my breastplate."

"Artistic license." Sigrun waved her hand carelessly, then refocused on Myr's glass. "Maybe the Broken Giant. I think I saw a few bottles in the cellar, but they were stored way over my head. Maybe I can find a ladder or some other tall thing." She leaned against Carver for another moment then ran off, grinning.

Carver blinked several times, his eyes darting nervously to Myr's face, then down to the floor. "Don't just sit there, man, go after her!" Myr shooed him away. Carver stammered in surprise for a moment before grinning widely and hurrying after the giggling dwarf.

oOo

White light, a cacophony of cups and saucers and a slammed door drove Myr and Aene deep under the covers, huddled together in mutual suffering. Her heart hardened by Aene's rejection of her advances, Myr's maid Enna seemed to have decided that some small satisfaction was to be found in sharing her pain with the imagined perpetrators.

"Can't you just sleep with her and get her off my back, Mahariel?" Myr whined in misery. "Do it for your sister?"

"Don't shout, _asha,_" he pleaded. "Why don't you sleep with her? She's your maid."

Myr lifted a corner of the covers and squinted into the impenetrable brightness. "It seems to be morning. Be a friend and carry me to my horse? Just roll me up in a blanket and rope me to the saddle, there's a good lad."

"I can't sneak you out of the Vigil, _lethallan_. You need to say goodbye to your staff and the Wardens."

"I did that last night; at least I think I did."

"I know; now go do it again."

"Tell them that I died in my sleep. If it will help, I'll do so. Right this minute." Myr swallowed thickly; the food smells from the tray were doing nothing positive for her roiling stomach.

"I'm too tired to carry you, anyway. It turns out that your cook's assistant with the gifted hands has an acquaintance among the grooms; he showed us around the stables last night."

"Maybe it's good that we're both leaving for a while. If you're here much longer I won't be able to look any of the male staff in the eye without blushing."

"Prude." Aene gently rubbed Myr's aching temples.

"Gigolo. Libertine. Please never stop doing that."

Aene fell silent.

Myr had little difficulty reading his thoughts. "I'll do my best to track down word of Zev, _lethallin_. I promise."

"It's been so long, Myr. How many months of trying to keep busy rebuilding the Peak, trying not to worry that he's not coming back to me, that he's..."

"We would've heard if anything had happened to him, Aene." Myr laced her fingers through his. "He warned that it might take some time, because he's being careful. He will come back to you."

"I would be with him, if I could. I never thought that duty could taste any more bitter than when I left my clan, _lethallan_. I was wrong," he whispered.

Myr had nothing to say to that; she stroked the back of his hand as his trembling slowly eased.

"I'm going to miss you, _emm'asha, _so much. Find that bastard. Find him so we can kill him and come home for good."

oOo

The farewells continued long into the day. Nathaniel seemed caught between self-consciousness and pridefulness in his new tabard embroidered with the double-griffon of the Warden-Commander that Myr had commissioned in Denerim. Respectful of his monochromatic clothing choices, Myr asked for the fabric to be dyed as dark a grey as the drapers could manage. As it matched his black leathers rather too well, she suspected that the dyer introduced the white dye to the black only in passing.

As she rode out of the courtyard, Nathaniel crossed both arms over his chest. One by one, the Wardens, the staff and even the children did the same in silent salute. Myr stopped her horse and returned the gesture, then turned back towards Amaranthine, surreptitiously blotting her streaming eyes.

The journey to Amaranthine was uneventful; Finn and Aene would turn southwest towards the Circle Tower with the extra horses at the gates. Myr embraced Finn, then Aene, finally allowing the grousing Maynee to draw her apart from her friend when it became evident that the alternative was standing in the misty rain for the remainder of the day.

The four days at sea passed slowly; the pale, seasick Myr emerging from her cocoon of blankets and Mouse only infrequently to speak to Cyrion or Maynee, and to reassure herself that they were making progress. Finally, as sundown approached on the fourth day, the Twins came into view; the two enormous bronze slave statues that guarded the channel to the Kirkwall docks. Myr told them of the city's history as a hub in the slave trade as the captain carefully navigated the narrow lane. Cyrion's faraway gaze suggested that his thoughts were of Valendrian and the other Denerim elves packed off to Tevinter before the Wardens could intervene. Maynee only spat on the deck and muttered to herself in disgust.

Exhausted even before disembarking, Myr had to stop halfway up the long stairs from the Docks to Lowtown. As they rested, the sound of running feet grew closer. A lone dwarf plunged down the steps, pursued by an elf in black armor, a russet mabari, a tall human and a dwarf with a huge crossbow. Myr had stood with the intention of intervening on the dwarf's behalf if needed, only to change her mind when she recognized the pursuing party. As the dwarf passed, she darted out to tangle his short legs with her own, stopping their rolling descent only with assistance from Mouse.

Keeping a firm hand on the dwarf's pauldron, Myr looked blearily up into the face of Perren Hawke. "Lost something of yours, Ser Hawke?"

"You've returned, Warden-Commander, and in such style!" Perren laughed.

Maynee suddenly swore and ripped off the captive dwarf's helm, revealing his elaborate facial tattoos. "Well, dog, and where's that mangy pack leader of yours? Did he think that crossing some jumped-up puddle was going to keep me from catching up to him?" Mouse and Fidget growled softly in unison. "Oh get over it, it's just a sodding expression."

"Is he Carta, May?" Myr asked.

"Oh yes. One of Kanky Hammertoes' boys. Kanky and I, we go way back—back to a particular proving fight of some little importance. Harol, here, is going to tell me where to find his scabby boss. I have a few dozen holes I need to stab in his sorry carcass, and I'd really like to get started straight away."

"M—Maynee! I didn't have anything to do with Kanky's deal with Jarvia. I promise!" The little man was plainly terrified. "If I rat out Kanky, I'll float."

Maynee grabbed a hank of the man's greasy hair and twisted. "You understand that I will do very, very bad things to you if you don't, yes?"

"I … but," the thug stammered.

"Point me to Kanky, I'll kill him instead of you. Simple as." Maynee shrugged.

"I'll make a map. Please don't kill me!"

"This is the second surprising arrival you've made recently, Commander," Perren observed as they watched the thief attempt to draw a recognizable map with a hand that shook like a leaf.

Taking the finished map, Maynee gave the cowed dwarf a shove, sending him tumbling down the limestone steps. "The next time I see your face, I'm keeping it for a souvenir," she called after him.

Perren grinned briefly at the dwarf, then turned serious. "My brother?"

"Carver is doing very well indeed, Ser Hawke." She nodded to Fenris and Varric. "I'll be happy to fill you in as soon as I have a chance to sleep for a bit; we still need to find an inn for the night."

"I won't hear of it, Commander. I have plenty of room for guests, and Mother would be most disappointed if I didn't allow her to grill you about my brother's exploits."

Myr remembered the brief stop they had made at Perren's uncle's home in Lowtown before they left for Ferelden. The floor would suffice, she supposed, and she didn't care to offend one of the few people she knew in the city. "Very well, thank you for the hospitality. You probably remember Mouse; this is my father, Cyrion Tabris, and my friend, Maynee Brosca."

Some of her thoughts must have shown on her face; Perren chuckled as he bowed to Cyrion and Maynee. "You are kind to be so polite in the face of a night on a hard floor, especially after a long sea voyage. But Mother and I don't live with Uncle Gamlen anymore. We've traded up a bit; real beds and everything." He grinned at her look of relief. "There are a pair of gentlemen at the manse that you may remember as well."

Myr was confused, but too tired to ask more with the lure of a warm, unmoving bed dangled in front of her. "Quite honestly, Ser Hawke, they could be Razikale and Lusacan in the flesh, and as long as they didn't stand between me and a few hours of sleep, they could go about their Archdemonic business with my blessing. Lead on."

* * *

><p><em>The idea of a CarverSigrun relationship was inspired completely by Reyavie's wonderful short "What and Whom", and she was so gracious in letting me steal it. Do yourself a favor and check out her writing if you haven't already; you'll be glad you did!_


	8. Where the Wild Things Are

_Thanks to everyone reading and following along, and particularly those reviewing—the feedback is greatly appreciated! Special thanks to mille libri for going above and beyond the call of beta on this one._

**Where the Wild Things Are**

Myr woke to a soft bed, clean sheets, and an unappealing aroma, which she realized to her chagrin was her own unwashed self.

"Wakey, wakey!" A harsh voice accompanied the pounding that had awakened Myr. She padded over to unlock the door and let Maynee into her room at the Hawke estate. Perren had assured them of sufficient rooms and beds, but it was clear that the beds had been the first priority when he and his mother had their ancestral home returned to them. The furnishings were otherwise sparse and there was construction equipment and materials stacked in the corners. But after four days on board a ship, the clean, unmoving beds had seemed Maker-sent.

"I'm a little less than fresh. I can't believe I didn't wash up yesterday." Myr yawned and stretched.

"Don't flatter yourself, you reek. After four days wrapped in a blanket that probably hadn't seen water since that scow was christened, even Mouse couldn't stand to sleep next to you." Maynee nodded to the contrite-looking mabari, curled in the corner. "As to the why, you kept falling asleep every time I let you sit down—we were pretty sure you'd drown in the tub. I finally had to half-carry your bony arse up here and put you to bed."

"Ah. Nothing like some profound embarrassment to start my time in Kirkwall. Thank you for taking care of me in my infirmity, May." Myr smiled wryly.

"Bugger that," Maynee growled. "I don't need any thanks for doing my job."

"Wiping my chin and tucking me into bed is not your job."

"Be quiet and sit down, I'm not finished yet." Maynee pointed at the bed. Myr, still too sleepy to summon any resistance, shrugged and sat. "All right, these are the rules. We've now a sea between you and those diffident, lily-livered sheep that you call Wardens."

"Hey, now," Myr objected.

"Shut up," Maynee snapped, "I'm still talking. We're not arguing about whether they are the greatest bunch of military geniuses ever to stalk Thedas, or the most heroic, crowd-awing, baby-kissing saviors of man-, elf-, or dwarf-kind. We're discussing their complete inability to stop their forelock-tugging long enough to advise you in making more appropriate decisions about who to send into which danger so you don't keep trying to do everything yourself, to force you to rest and treat your injuries before they worsen, and to make you eat what you need to keep your body running. You're not in the Alienage anymore. You can eat your fill and not stint anyone else, and make no mistake—you _will_ eat your fill, if I have to cram it down your throat."

"May, it's not the Wardens' job to take care of their Commander, it's their job to kill darkspawn. It's the Commander's job to watch over her Wardens, and to keep them focused on their primary duty."

"Wardens also need to preserve their gifted Commanders so they don't need to go hat in hand to Weisshaupt every six months to beg a new one."

"May, I … mmph!" Myr found her lips pinched together firmly.

"You're not their Commander any more, and I'm done talking about the Wardens. They are there, and _I'm_ here. Your father does what he can, but he wasn't with you during the Blight and Thaw, and won't be with us consistently while we search for the Architect." Maynee smirked. "So think of me as your old maiden auntie. Your loving, doting auntie who will step on your neck if you don't do exactly what she says."

"Mmmblmff."

Maynee released her hold on Myr, who glared sullenly at the dwarf. "If I agree to your terms, can I have a bath?" Myr asked finally.

"I suppose." Maynee's eyes narrowed as Myr continued to gaze at her, unmoving. "What?"

"You know, breaking you out of that filthy Carta jail cell might just have been one of the wiser things I've done," Myr said quietly.

"There's a low bar." Maynee's tone was unchanged, though her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges.

Myr suddenly grinned and leaned forward, arms out.

"Eyah, don't even try it!" Maynee danced out of range. "Hug me and I'll shank you."

"One of these days I'll catch you with your guard down." Myr chuckled.

"Leliana surprised me that once; it isn't going to happen again. She apologized once she quit bleeding."

oOo

If Myr hadn't known differently, it would have been easy to imagine that the eastern end of the Lowtown district must be the worst part of Kirkwall. Featureless and filthy, the tumbledown beige buildings were divided into tiny apartments, housing the poorest of Kirkwall's native human population.

If Darktown, where Anders lived and ran his free clinic, was the unseemly cellar where all of Kirkwall's flotsam and jetsam filtered to rot, the Alienage was its fenced-off kennel.

The Alienage was Myr's destination that morning, to find the rented boarding house that Myr, her father Cyrion, Maynee, and Mouse would call home while they searched the Free Marches for the Architect. Surprisingly, Perren had business of his own there, and had asked Fenris and Anders to join them.

Myr fancied that she could feel as well as hear Fenris' bass growl of displeasure as she turned down the last street leading to the main square. "For what reason would you choose to live in this cage, Warden?" he asked.

"We can't all claim our own Hightown address, Serah Fenris," Myr pointed out. "Though I must admit that with the high walls, locking gates, and profusion of spikes, the term is somewhat apt."

"You needn't prepend any human honorific; Fenris will do."

"Very well, Fenris, and I am Myr."

Fenris nodded once, reluctantly. "As you wish, Myraene."

"I imagine that my daughter chose the Alienage location with my comfort more in mind than her own, Fenris," Cyrion said amiably.

"I apologize, Cyrion, for the implied criticism." Myr couldn't help noting that Fenris' reply to her father lacked completely the heavy disapproval that had laced his comment to her. "Can I ask why you would choose to live here? I cannot imagine that you need do so."

"Not anymore, that is true. But I enjoy living and working amongst our people." Cyrion came to a stop just past the Lowtown gates, the main square of the Alienage spread out before them. "It is easy to look at an Alienage and see nothing but filth, malnourished children, abused women, and the craven men who allow it. Yet to take up swords against the humans would mean an unwinnable conflict that would only decimate the healthy and leave the rest much worse off. They don't have the resources to leave the city and live elsewhere, and the Dalish tribes are usually difficult to find and can help but a few."

"To do nothing is not an acceptable choice."

"Of course not," Cyrion agreed. "But training, tools, helping people find opportunities outside of the Alienage where they can thrive; all of that takes time, money, and friends among the humans. Few allies are won by killing them first."

"You're an idealist, Cyrion," Fenris reproved.

The older man nodded in acceptance of the term. "I have found it necessary. There are difficulties enough for a widower in the Alienage with a small child to raise. Realism is not a state of mind that I could have maintained without warping my daughter's outlook." Cyrion shook himself slightly and gestured to the huge tree at the center of the square. "They've painted their _vhenedhal._ How … colorful."

"Serah Hawke, thank you so much for coming." A pretty, middle-aged Dalish woman in Alienage dress approached Perren, a second dark-haired Dalish trailing her—one that Myr knew.

"Myr! You're in Kirkwall, what—is Mahariel with you?" Merrill looked over their small group, drooping when she didn't see Aene's tall figure.

"Pardon me for just a moment, Arianni," Perren apologized. "Myr, you know Merrill?"

"We met during the Blight. Two of her clanmates were sickened with the Taint; one of them, Aene Mahariel, is now one of my—I mean, one of Commander Howe's Senior Wardens in command of Soldier's Peak," Myr explained. "But no; Aene needed to stay in Ferelden, Merrill, I'm sorry. He asked me to seek out your clan, though."

"I imagine he has heard of our … troubles in escaping the Blight. Marethari will welcome you." Merrill turned to the other Dalish woman before Myr could ask anything more. "Arianni, these others are friends as well. You can speak freely in front of them."

Arianni glanced at Myr and the others hesitantly, then steadied herself and turned back to Perren. "It's Feynriel, Serah Hawke. My son has learned so much from Keeper Marethari in the time he has trained with her, but the demons still hunt him, despite all of her efforts to block them." The woman choked and took several stuttering breaths. "Marethari sent a messenger yesterday; my son has fallen into a dream. They can't wake him, and Marethari cannot find him in the Beyond. But there is a ritual that may help; a way for someone that Feynriel trusts to reach him there."

"A ritual?" asked Perren. "If Merrill is the clan's only other mage, how will that work? Even if Anders agreed to assist, that's not enough mages."

"The only other methods I've heard of or experienced have involved blood magic or demons," Myr said quietly, turning to Merrill. "I don't imagine that Marethari is working with the Circle?"

"N-no, I don't believe so. I believe the Keeper has taken steps to conceal the clan from the Templars."

"I thought only mages traveled the Fade outside of dreams," Fenris asked Myr suspiciously.

"Abominations can force anyone into or out of the Fade, if they are strong enough."

"Yet another danger posed by those weak enough to fall prey to demons." Fenris glared at Anders. His gauntleted hands were clenched at his side, an expression of deep loathing twisting his fine features.

"This isn't the time for a resurgence of the Mage Wars," Perren firmly overrode Anders' heated rejoinder before turning back to Arianni. "Is Feynriel still with Marethari?"

The woman nodded. "Does … does that mean you'll come, Serah Hawke?"

"If the Keeper thinks that I can help, then yes, I will." Perren turned to Myr. "I believe that you said that you needed to contact the Keeper for your friend, Myr? If I could impose, could you possibly accompany us sooner rather than later, and tell me of your experiences with demons in the Fade? It would help to be prepared."

"Of course. Father, would you like to …"

"I would very much enjoy meeting Aene's clan if possible," Cyrion said at the same moment.

"What about the Carta, May?" Myr asked.

"Eh, Kanky will be there when we're ready to go after him," Maynee said. "We don't want to give him long enough that he locates the house or makes trouble for the elves, but I think I can keep him guessing."

"We are at your service, then, Arianni." Perren smiled.

oOo

"_Aneth ara_, Hawke, thank you for coming so quickly." Marethari looked beyond Perren and smiled at Myr. "Myraene, what a welcome surprise. Our meetings never seem to come in peaceful times, _lethallan_."

"_Aneth ara_, Keeper; it does seem that way." Myr smiled and nodded to the others. "My friend Maynee Brosca and my father, Cyrion Tabris. I believe that you know Hawke's associates."

"_Andaran Atish'an_, friend Brosca. Be welcome in our camp," Marethari said kindly, then turned to Myr's father. "You must be so proud of your daughter. She has told me much of you."

"As she and Aene have told me of you, Keeper." Cyrion bowed respectfully. "I bear greetings from the bann of the Denerim Alienage. I would value learning more of our Dalish cousins, but I understand that time is of the essence."

"Yes, I'm afraid that it is; we must attend to Feynriel as soon as possible." Marethari turned to Perren and his friends. "My thanks for agreeing to help Arianni and her son, Hawke. The ritual itself is not hazardous, though the Beyond is rife with dangers, as I'm sure you know. Who among your friends will travel with you?"

"It is possible to send more than one person to the Fade with this ritual, Marethari?" Perren asked. "I was told by my father that it took a half-dozen mages and a quantity of lyrium to send even one?"

"Our ways are not those of the Circle, Hawke," Marethari explained. "The ancient Keepers were granted the secrets of the Veil from the Creators themselves, and it is that knowledge that I draw upon today."

"Some Dalish mages would have us also believe that blood magic is just an extension of normal magic," Anders said with a glare for Merrill, "and we know that blood magic will provide access to the Fade as well."

"As will abominations, according to Myraene." Fenris sneered at Anders.

"No Keeper would use blood magic or accept the aid of demons." Marethari drew herself up. "Those mages that do must leave the clan, much to our grief."

"Stop talking about me as if I am not here!" Merrill cried.

"None of this is accomplishing anything." Perren turned to Myr. "Would you accompany us, Myr, since you have more experience than any of us?"

Myr hesitated for just a moment before nodding. "If I can be of help."

"Then you're going to take me as well." Maynee scowled at Myr. "Any argument?"

"No, May," Myr replied meekly, ignoring the smug look that passed between the dwarf and her father.

The Keeper led them to an aravel set apart from the others, where a white-haired elf was tending a young man wrapped in blankets.

"Hahren Paivel." Myr smiled and took the older man's outstretched hands.

"Myraene, dear child." He nodded at Perren and the others. "The boy is weakening; it is good that you have come so quickly.

"Why are demons hunting Feynriel, Keeper?" Perren asked. "He seemed a normal enough boy when we met him last year. On the strong side, perhaps, magically."

"As I have trained him, Feynriel's true strength has emerged. He is what the Tevinters call 'Somniari' …"

"A dreamer," Fenris finished for the Keeper. "One of Danarius' rivals owned a slave discovered to be Somniari. She was prized indeed, until she was corrupted. Mistress Arventus's estate was demolished; everyone inside was killed. The other Magisters finally succeeded in destroying the abomination only after dozens died."

"My Feynriel—no!" Arianni sobbed and clutched at Paivel, who, with Cyrion's aid, gently led her away.

"Somniari," Anders whispered. "Able to enter the Fade at will, seek out anyone and invade their dreams, drive them mad, cripple or kill them. They are … the preferred vehicles for demons."

Marethari drew Myr and Perren apart from the others. "Feynriel cannot be allowed to become corrupted. If you cannot bring him out, you will need to take steps."

Hawke took her meaning immediately. "What you're asking is abhorrent."

"It is," Marethari agreed, "but Tranquility for one man weighed against the death and misery that would result? That is hardly a choice."

"I'm having difficulty believing any abomination could cause the destruction on the level Fenris described." Perren turned to Myr. "But I do remember hearing about the Circle in Ferelden …"

Myr nodded slowly. "All but obliterated by an abomination that turned his fellow mages into horrors and decimated the Templars. Given even one more day's time, I doubt that anything short of an army could have stopped it."

"What would you have us do, Keeper?" Perren asked as they rejoined the others.

"Stretch out on the ground near Feynriel and relax, all of you."

The Keeper bent over a wide, shallow bowl with a glimmer of whitish-blue sand in the bottom. As they found comfortable positions, the Keeper began to whisper in Elvish. Marethari's voice washed over Myr, and she felt the creeping cold turn her limbs cold and leaden. There was a flash of blue fire as her eyes closed, then nothing.

oOo

For just a moment as her eyes opened, Myr thought them back in Denerim. With a hand up from Perren, she stood and the room resolved itself into a distorted version of a small Alienage flat. Above their heads was limitless black, sparkling with a multitude of stars; below their feet, rocky ground and sparse clumps of dead grass. The drab walls and worn furnishings rippled and stretched in the dim light of the Fade.

"This uncanny place is not for those like us," Fenris muttered in an aside to Myr. "We should not tarry." His lyrium markings glowed faintly in the weak light of the Fade. He shifted his attention to Anders, who was turned away from the others with his head slightly cocked, as if listening.

"Are you all right, Anders?" Perren reached out a tentative hand.

"I had not thought to return, with our task not yet complete. It is good to feel the breath of the Fade once more." Anders turned; blue fire crackling from rents in his exposed skin and blazing from his eyes as they met Myr's. "You. I know you."

"You are acquainted with Justice, Myr?" Hawke asked carefully.

"That is not Justice," she answered in a low voice.

"You are the Warden-Commander; you were my first guide in this strange world, and a just and disciplined leader. You called me friend …"

"Do not speak that word to me," Myr replied angrily. "I do not wish to hear that term from one who could find _justice_ in viciously murdering Templars and fellow Wardens, whose only crime was in investigating reports of a dangerous maleficar on the orders of a spy sent by Weisshaupt. You killed a dozen where one was guilty; you could have slipped away, but you chose not to."

"We could not allow them to interfere with our mission," Justice insisted. "They stood with the enemy, and thus needed to be eliminated."

"Such a bloodless term; call it what it was—mindless slaughter. Taking one man's hatred of mages and using it to legitimize such brutality is unforgivable." Myr's voice trembled with the effort of suppressing her anger. "My friend Justice knew compassion; he knew that even in the darkest soul, there was the potential for change. Violence was a last resort, not the first. But my friend is gone, and whatever you are helped kill him."

It was Fenris who finally spoke into the charged silence. "Let us find the boy and be gone from this place."

As Perren and Myr approached the door of the small apartment, it shimmered and vanished, pulling the walls away with it. A blur of transition, and they were standing at the base of the _vhenedhal_ in the Kirkwall Alienage. Several times larger than it was outside the Fade, its roots spread as far as Myr could see, twisting around and through the tightly-clustered Alienage homes as if feeding off them. Candles floated lazily around the trunk like clouds of fireflies, disappearing into the stars and branches overhead.

"More visitors … interesting. It is usually a slow place, the Fade." An apparition in flowing black approached, its hollow voice issuing from the shadows within its dark hood. "I am Torpor."

"Sloth demon," Justice said, "It will seek to turn us from our path, do not relax your guard around it."

"Fine enough advice, though I prefer an expedient." Myr advanced on the demon, twin daggers held low.

"No, Myr, wait!" Merrill called.

"What? Why?"

"We can use it, if we're careful." Addressing Torpor, Merrill asked, "Where is the boy Feynriel?"

"He is close." Its voice deepened, became languorous. "He is greatly troubled by those in your world that wish to cage him, and those in mine who wish to use him as a bridge to yours."

"But you don't," Perren said skeptically.

"That sounds like a great deal of effort." Torpor sighed. "Give him to me, and I will ease his pain. In your world, he will become what your Chantry calls 'Tranquil'; no threat to others, content in his own mind."

"He wouldn't … die?"

"Hawke!" Myr barked. "Sloth killed dozens of Templars and mages at the Circle Tower in Ferelden; it killed Imriel's friend Niall by draining him, just like this Torpor wishes to do to Feynriel. Never take the word of a demon, _never._"

"Have it your way, then." The demon reared up to its full height.

"Maker …" Perren shook his head and raised his staff; a bolt of lightning took the demon full in the chest, and the battle was on.

Against their concerted efforts, the demon did not survive for long. Perren glanced around the square and pointed at the main stairs that in Kirkwall would have led to the human areas of Lowtown. "I think that may be our only way forward."

"In a moment." Myr turned to Merrill. "The Fade is dangerous enough without allowing demons the chance to ensnare us."

"I know that you have questions, Myr. I'll try to answer them when we return to Sundermount."

"Very well," Myr agreed. "As long as you don't suggest trying to negotiate with a demon again, I'll hold my peace. For now."

oOo

Tents, aravels, halla, and Dalish filled the lush valley where the stairwell-turned-deer path led. From the cold and the heavy scent of pine, Myr guessed it to be Ferelden; the wildness suggested the deep Brecilian.

"_Arlathvhen."_ Myr stumbled to a halt. Even for an Alienage-born elf, the spectacle of the massed clans evoked a deep response. "What Father would give to see this …"

On a rise at the center of the sea of elves stood Marethari, Feynriel at her side. "My people, I present to you our hope. His features may mark him as human, but in his heart beats the blood of the Dales. The humans of the Chantry would have him in chains, but with the People, he will realize the power of a lineage as ancient as our race."

Feynriel seemed abashed by the tumultuous cheering of his kinsmen. "I … I don't know what to say."

As Perren and the others made their way through the crowd, Hahren Paivel approached the boy. "You have the power to change the future for all of us, Feynriel." The old man's practiced voice seemed to enthrall his listeners. "The People could live as one again, far from the shemlen who wish only to prey upon our young and force us to bend knee to their god. We could remake our destiny, instead of subsisting on that which the humans deign to leave us."

"Hahren? Always before, you counseled me that lasting change might take ages to effect. You warned me against using my power to manipulate events as do the magisters." Feynriel finally noticed the newcomers. "Serah Hawke? It's strange to see you at _Arlathvhen_."

"We seem to meet at points of crisis in your life, Feynriel," Perren said carefully. "So perhaps it is not so surprising, as it seems there are decisions of some consequence at stake here."

"Indeed," agreed the Keeper, "and the time to make them is now, Feynriel. Too long have we waited for someone with your power. Where you lead, we shall follow."

"Consequences of our decisions; those are what you have taught me to look for in the histories, Hahren, and what you have cautioned me to examine before I act, Keeper." Feynriel took a step away from the two.

"The People have toiled under an unendurable yoke for centuries," Paivel's voice rang with conviction. "Only you can bring us victory, Feynriel!"

"No." The young man shook his head vigorously. "I'm no warleader, and you are not the Hahren!" Feynriel dashed into the crowd and was gone.

"You!" The false Marethari pointed at Hawke. "You turned him from his people." A brilliant flash of light burst from the keeper and shredded the scene around them. When it faded, a colossal demon stood in her place. "With my power joined to his, Feynriel would have changed the world."

"Only as your slave," Perren accused. "Luckily, he saw through your lies."

"Such blind creatures—what need has Pride of lies when truth holds so much power?" The demon considered each of small group carefully, it many eyes finally coming to rest on Fenris. "Would you hear the truth, warrior?"

"Cast your eyes elsewhere, demon. I needed no aid from your kind to win my freedom," Fenris growled.

"You may call me Wryme, warrior." The thing closed with Fenris, looming over him. "Your former master; you fear him still, do you not? He tried to break your mind and visited torment upon your body and spirit."

"Yes, but …" Fenris relaxed slightly, his sword dipping towards the ground.

"With my aid, you could be free forever. You would have power enough to challenge any who would chain you."

"Fenris, you can't do this; a demon will take your mind and soul and leave you with nothing," Perren called, raising his staff.

"You must prepare yourself to strike him down should he turn, mortal." Justice glowed with energy, blue fire pouring from his eyes to crackle over his skin.

"What … what would you require of me?" Fenris tilted his head to look the demon in the face.

"Fenris!" Myr sprang at the tall elf, hoping to knock him to the ground. Reacting faster than she would have thought possible, Fenris hooked the grip of his sword under her right arm and flung her sideways. Myr was sent sprawling, her daggers flying out of her hands as she impacted with the rocky ground. As the others were occupied with Wryme and its summoned minions, Myr found herself the warrior's sole focus.

Fenris rushed her, stabbing down at her thigh. Myr rolled and felt the blade tear at the leg of her leathers, slicing into the flesh below her hip. Fumbling for her hidden knives, she sent one spinning at his unprotected feet. Fenris dodged it easily, but now off-balance, could not evade her follow-up throw at his leg.

Hissing in pain, Fenris lurched at her, bringing his sword back and down in a swing that Myr knew she would never be able to evade in time. At the same moment, brought down by spell and Maynee's daggers, the towering demon finally fell. Myr fancied that she could see the moment that reason flooded back into Fenris' eyes, followed closely by horror at the realization that he was about to open her throat. Wrenching himself backwards, he overbalanced and fell.

Perren healed Myr's hip and Fenris' leg, then limped back to help Anders with Mouse's badly torn shoulder. Fenris gave Myr a hand up, returning her daggers and knives.

"Warden … Myraene," Fenris said, meeting her eyes briefly, "I must apologize. To everyone, of course, but I almost did you grievous injury ..."

"Anyone can be trapped by a demon, Fenris; they use magic to make their victims more tractable, and are almost impossible to resist. The sloth demon that I spoke of earlier tried to tempt each of us with dreams of other lives. Mine was …" Myr pushed back the memory. "Well, that's not germane. The point is that I would have been lost to the demon if not for Denel Aeducan. Dwarven resistance and a remarkable strength of will saved us all."

"You are … kind to share your experience." Fenris straightened and put up his sword.

"It is no troub—"

"Though letting kindness cloud your sense to the point of fighting a defensive battle against an enemy who is trying to kill you is beyond foolhardy." He scowled and stalked off in Perren's direction.

Left stunned and blinking, Myr shook herself and hurried to follow the others up and out of the valley.

oOo

Between one step and the next, the deer path blurred into a stone stairway. Myr ignored the now-familiar dizziness from the abrupt Fade transition, and climbed the last few feet to a sun-washed city square. Trees and striped awnings in myriad colors shaded merchants selling unusual fruits and bread, dry goods and leather.

"Antiva," Myr whispered, struck by the beauty of the pale stone buildings surrounding the square, a profusion of flowers and bright curtains at every window.

"How in the blazes do they get any assassinating done in this heat?" Perren mopped at the sweat already beading on his forehead. "And what is that lovely music?"

Myr listened to the faint melody for a moment and smiled to herself. "Lillo flute, if I were to guess."

By the position of the sun, it was midday, and the market square was awash with people. Myr flinched away from a lean, dark-haired man who looked to bowl her over. His arm and hand passed through Myr's midsection. Distracted, Fenris didn't see a grey-haired matron approaching from the rear until she had passed through him.

"_Venhedis!_"

Perren motioned to a table half-shaded by a small mastic tree. An older, sandy-haired man sipped wine and watched as a small blond boy made careful notations on the parchment. "Feynriel's father, Vincento," Perren whispered to Myr.

"... I'll have you scribing all of my letters soon. If I had known you were such a bright lad, I'd have brought you into the business years ago," the man was saying.

"Thank you, Father. Do you … do you think I could stay the whole summer?" Feynriel turned to an apparition of Arianni, approaching them both. "Oh Mother, thank you for bringing me here. I'm so happy!"

"Of course, Feynriel," the ghostly Arianni said placidly. "We can stay as long as you wish."

Feynriel seemed to finally notice Perren. "Serah Hawke! What are you doing in Antiva? Isn't it wonderful here? Have you met my father?"

"I met your father last year in Kirkwall," Perren said carefully. "When you ran away from home and were kidnapped. Do you remember that?"

"I … think so. You rescued me from slavers." Feynriel shook his head slightly. "I remember …"

"All of that is over now, Son," Vincento assured the boy. "We're together again as a family, away from Kirkwall and its Templars."

"Yes, Feynriel. Together and safe, for good." Arianni added and smiled serenely.

"But you said that the Templars would never give up if I didn't turn myself in, Mother—that I'd need to hide my entire life." Feynriel looked down at the parchment, then up at Vincento. "Mother taught me to write years ago. And why am I even here? You've never tried to see me before." He stood, once again a young man, and started to back away from the two.

The apparition of Arianni disappeared; Vincento started to glow and stretch, as did the people and the buildings around them. "Don't question me, Feynriel." Where Vincento stood was now a tall, horned demoness, stroking her impossibly lush body absently. "You must obey your father." Grinning, she held out a taloned hand to the young mage, who turned and disappeared back into the roiling mists of the Fade.

"A pity." The desire demon looked over each of them, turning back to Myr with of flash of recognition. "You. You have taken several of our sisters away from us in your time. I think it only fitting that I call in the debt." Her purplish-grey eyes raked Myr's slight body. "You may call me Caress, dear one."

"Not that I don't appreciate the interest, but you're just not my type, I'm afraid." Myr slid her daggers from their sheaths.

"Oh? I am nothing if not flexible." The demoness glided to Myr, her form shimmering and warping as she moved.

Myr brought her blades up and gasped as familiar blue eyes met hers. "Imriel," she whispered.

He was dressed as she remembered him best, in the plain leather jerkin and breeches he had adopted with relish upon leaving the Circle. His straight, sandy hair was held out of his face with a bit of leather, bits of it escaping to hang around his face as it always did. "Together again at long last, my love." He raised one hand to trace her cheek with warm fingers.

In the distance, Myr could hear raised voices, strident and demanding; she heard her name repeated, then only a confused babble. Her arms suddenly heavy, Myr lowered her blades. "How can you … I don't understand."

"It's the Fade, Myr; I can be here, because you wish it. We can love each other as we were meant to, give each other what the Blight denied us."

"The Blight brought us together—I never would have left the Alienage if I hadn't been recruited, never set foot in the Tower." There was something worrying at the edge of Myr's awareness, something important.

"Of course, my darling. I only meant …"

"Imriel never called me that." The fog clouding Myr's thoughts cleared a bit. "You don't know him, not really. You only know the surface."

"That does not mean so very much, my love." Imriel cupped her face in his hands. "Only let me in, and we can be everything for each other." His eyes opened wide in surprise at the dagger protruding from his belly.

"Imriel would be sickened to think that any memory I might have of him be used to perfect a likeness from your putrid flesh." Myr's other dagger sunk into the demon's chest. She heard the barked warning and fell back, giving Fenris' huge sword plenty of clearance as it cleaved the demon's head from its neck from behind. The jet of hot blood blinded Myr; she heard rather than saw the demon's head and body tumble to the stony ground at her feet.

"Myr, I am terribly sorry," Perren said after a time. "If you …"

Myr stared down at the corpse at her feet for a long moment. She retrieved her daggers and carefully wiped the blades clean, then turned and strode back towards the stairs without speaking, leaving them to trail in her wake.

oOo

They found Feynriel alone, back in the small Alienage flat, pacing and raving. Seeing Perren, the young man hurried to him, wringing his hands. "There's no escape from them, there are too many. Everywhere I go, demons wait, and they all want me!"

"We'll help you however we can, Feynriel," Perren assured him.

"Think of the threat that I became, Hawke," Fenris warned. "If this boy is truly Somniari, he could wreak unimaginable destruction."

"How did that lady magister train her apprentice, then?" Merrill asked.

"Slaves are not informed of such things." Fenris scowled at her.

"They must have some special knowledge or techniques," Perren said. "Somniari seem rare enough amongst the Tevinter mages, but Marethari said that Feynriel is the first elf to survive in an age or more."

"Tevinter," Feynriel whispered. "I hadn't considered … Do you think that I can find help there, Serah Hawke? To keep my life, and for a chance to train my powers …"

"I think you must try, Feynriel."

The young man nodded. "I'll be in your debt, Serah, always."

oOo

Wood smoke in the air and grass under her hand reassured Myr that they had returned to the Dalish camp on Sundermount and not a new stretch of Feynriel's nightmare. She sat up gingerly and waited while the inevitable Fade-induced vertigo receded. Arianni had already drawn Feynriel away and the two were talking quietly.

Smiling, Marethari turned to Perren. "I wouldn't have believed that anyone could find such success, Hawke. Feynriel, his mother, I, and all of my clan own you a great debt."

"It wouldn't have been possible without every one of us working together, Keeper." Hawke demurred.

Myr lost track of the rest of the conversation, nodding and smiling when it seemed appropriate, responding to her father's and Marethari's inquiries with what she hoped were cogent replies. As unobtrusively as possible, she moved towards the edge of the clearing and the path back to Kirkwall. At the call to share the communal supper, she slipped away.


	9. Without a Trace

_Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. Many thanks to mille libri, beta non pareil, for all of the help in choosing the right path for this chapter._

**Without a Trace**

Cyrion found his daughter kneeling by a stream not far from the Dalish camp on Sundermount, washing her face and hands with a scrap of cloth. Myr and the others had only just awoken from their journey to the Fade to rescue Feynriel. She had answered the Keeper's questions calmly enough, but Cyrion knew his daughter and knew the signs of distress. As Myr quietly slipped away at the call to share the communal meal, he followed her.

"I'm sorry I pulled you away from the gathering, Father. I was just cleaning up."

"I sometimes forget how keen your hearing is, Myraene." Cyrion settled next to her on the bank. "But how did you know it was me?"

"Part of my training with Zev." Myr paused and rinsed out the thin rag. "The Crows do much of what they do in the dark, so they learn to identify allies and targets by scent and sound cues. A fellow Crow might have suffered a lingering injury which causes them to limp and drag one foot, or an enemy may be overfond of sandalwood, for example."

"Should I ask how you identified your father?" Cyrion chuckled.

"The leather wax you use. Since it is made by Alarith's son-in-law, it is an easy way to recognize a Denerim elf." Myr started to scrub at her reddened hands again. "I only use regulation Warden leather wax now, of course."

"That's enough, Myraene; you're rubbing your skin raw." Cyrion gently took the cloth out of her hands. "Maynee told me a little of what happened in the Fade—the demons, and the forms they took."

Myr studied her distorted reflection in the rippling water. "I can still feel his blood on my face," she whispered. "It's impossible. I wasn't physically in the Fade, the demon had only Imriel's appearance, not his essence. I know these things rationally. And yet."

"You've spoken only rarely of Imriel."

Myr looked away. "I told you the important things, Father."

"You told me that you recruited him at the Tower after he helped in defeating Uldred and the blood mages, and that he later saved Connor Guerrin. You told me was a healer and a gifted elementalist, and that he died in the Frostbacks. None of that tells me who he was, or what he meant to you."

"Imriel was only four when he went to the Tower. He could hardly remember the feel of grass under his feet or what his mother looked like. He had never seen a dwarf, couldn't cook a meal for himself, couldn't use a bow. He was apprenticed to Wynne as a healer at the Tower, but once he got out and felt the wind and rain on his face …" Myr smiled at the memory. "Aene and Alistair almost got electrocuted up in the mountains dragging him back to camp during a thunderstorm. I'll never forget the sight of him with his hair and shirt plastered to his skin, laughing with delight. He was … radiant."

"Were you in love with him?"

Myr was silent for a long moment, staring into the distance. "A little, I suppose," she said finally. "After Nelaros died and Duncan took me away, after everything at Ostagar … It sounds trite, but he reminded me that there was a life to lead beyond the blood and combat."

"I'm sorry that we never had the chance to meet, Myraene."

"I as well." Myr squeezed Cyrion's hand. "Thank you, Father. I'll join you all shortly."

oOo

By the time Myr returned to the Dalish camp, the meal was largely over and most of the elves had returned to their work. Hawke and the others were talking quietly with Marethari.

"There is another subject that we wished to speak with you about, Keeper," Perren was saying. "Merrill?" he prompted, when she still hesitated.

"Keeper, I am invoking _vir sulevanan—_I will complete whatever task you wish. I require the _arulin'holm_ for my research," Merrill announced in a rush.

I see," Marethari said evenly. "Your research on the _eluvian_, of course."

"I'm not asking you to approve, Keeper. I …"

"The _eluvian_," Myr interrupted Merrill's terse reply. "You're not speaking of the corrupted _eluvian_ from that temple to the north of the Brecilian Passage?"

"I arranged to have it shipped to Kirkwall, to study it." Merrill raised her chin defiantly.

"Are you insane, Merrill? Tamlen …"

"I know better than you what Tamlen's death meant to this clan!" Visibly startled by her own outburst, Merrill dropped her eyes and continued in a strained voice. "You and Duncan and the others were outsiders. You never saw the terrible grief, the loss—the clan still hasn't recovered."

"Tamlen didn't die," Myr said quietly. "Not then."

Marethari closed her eyes. "I feared that might be the case."

"What do you mean?" Merrill demanded. "Duncan said there was no chance that he survived."

"No. If you remember, he said that Tamlen had 'no chance', and that we should trust him when he said that Tamlen was 'gone'. Later that year I had cause to recall exactly what he said."

"He was a ghoul," Marethari guessed.

"They aren't darkspawn, but they can still sense Wardens and hear the song of the Archdemon." Myr stared into the flickering cook fire. "He knew Aene—somehow Tamlen held onto that one memory, that one part of himself, all of those months ..." Myr broke off and shook her head. "At the end, Tamlen begged Aene to kill him, to give him peace."

"Tamlen," Merrill whispered brokenly.

"He was so strong, Keeper, right to the end," Myr said.

Marethari nodded. "Thank you for bringing us the truth of what happened, _lethallan_."

Myr turned back to Merrill. "That _eluvian_ should have been destroyed, Merrill. Why did you move it here?"

"I've cleansed it—the mirror won't hurt anyone."

"'Cleansed' it with blood magic," Fenris charged, with a dark look for the tiny mage.

"How could you, Merrill?" Myr demanded. "How could you risk bringing it anywhere near our people? How could you endanger the Alienage like that?"

"I told you I cleansed it! How many times do we need to discuss this? How many times to I need to defend myself for doing what a Keeper should—to remember, to restore the old ways and old magics?"

"Keeper, apprentice—hardly a difference, I'm sure," Anders muttered.

"How would you know if it were cleansed of the Taint, Merrill?" Myr asked. "You're not a Warden."

"I—I know it is. The spirit showed me how to cleanse it."

"The demon showed you, you mean," Hawke said.

"I told you, Hawke—that is a human distinction. The People know …" Merrill began.

"Excuse me," Myr interrupted. "Keeper, may I speak with you privately for a moment?"

"Of course, child."

Merrill broke off her argument with Anders as Myr and Marethari returned to the fire after a short discussion.

"Merrill, I had intended to present this to the Keepers at the next _Arlathvhen_, but Marethari and I agree that it's worth revealing now, because of the risk posed by the corrupted _eluvian_," Myr said.

"I said that I …"

"There is a second _eluvian_, uncorrupted." Myr spoke over Merrill's angry rejoinder.

"A second … _Mythal'enast,_" Merrill exclaimed and leaned forward anxiously. "Where? Where is it?"

Myr told them of her meeting with their clan-cousin Ariane and the healer Finn, now a Grey Warden. The three had followed a trail of arcane crumbs across Ferelden, dropped by Myr's one-time companion, Morrigan. "The _eluvian_ were used by the ancient elves to communicate and even travel from city to city, but Morrigan claimed that she had manipulated the terminus."

"Manipulated it how, _da'len_?" Marethari asked gravely.

"I can't pretend to understand the magics that she used; I think it likely that it was made possible only with the lore she stole from Ariane's clan, combined with what she found in her mother's grimoire. She also claimed that she had used all of the power remaining within it to fuel that last bit of magic."

"Asha'bellanar's grimoire …" Merrill whispered in longing. "I suppose Morrigan took it with her. What I wouldn't give to study it."

Myr thought that a perfectly terrible idea, and said nothing. Merrill had obviously changed a great deal, and not, seemingly, for the better. There was only one person cautious enough to be trusted with the grimoire that Morrigan had agreed to leave behind. Finn admitted that he found it quite challenging, but Myr was confident that he would work his way through in time. If there were secrets locked in the tome that would help them prepare for whatever plans Flemeth might have, they needed to know them.

"Where is the eluvian, Myr? Where in Amaranthine?" Merrill asked excitedly.

"That I will reveal only when the corrupted _eluvian_ has been destroyed—reduced to pieces and burned."

"What?" Merrill stared at Myr in horror. "You can't ask …"

"I can and I am. You never should have touched the mirror in the first place, to say nothing of having it moved to Kirkwall. It should have been destroyed when it was found, but it is here now, and I will do everything I can to see it permanently unmade."

"Myr, please, you can't know the time and work that I've put into the mirror. Everything I've sacrificed for …"

"... is _nothing_ compared to the sacrifices that Tamlen and Mahariel were forced to make because of that accursed mirror," Myr snapped. "I've told you what I will accept. Speak to me again when it's done."

Merrill flinched and closed her eyes, and finally nodded.

oOo

Perren and Myr waited with the others at the edge of the Dalish camp while Cyrion made his goodbyes to Hahren Paivel and Master Ilen.

"My father, the ambassador." Myr smiled. "Anora should have hired him as her envoy to Dumar. I'm as likely to cause an incident as broker any kind of arrangement." Her gaze shifted to Merrill, receiving some last instructions from Marethari. "Does Merrill have any pets of any kind? Perhaps there is a kitten or puppy of hers that I could kick when we return to Kirkwall."

"For whatever it might be worth, I believe you made the right choice. I think she'll recover a bit when it's done. I've suspected since she showed me the mirror that it might have some sort of hold on her. We'll need to watch her to make sure it's destroyed and not simply moved again." Perren crossed his arms and gazed at the two women. "She has the chance to become part of her clan again, to study an uncorrupted _eluvian_, and put the blood magic behind her. I think she'll get past her wounded pride."

"W-Warden Tabris?" A soft voice spoke from behind Myr.

"Arianni. Is Feynriel prepared for his journey to Tevinter?"

"I'm going with him. I have some money put away, and I think I can find one of the clans which frequents the hills west of Minrathous." Arianni pulled a small, leather-bound volume out of her pack and placed it in Myr's hands. "I have something for you, Warden. The Keeper gifted Serah Hawke with that book of elven lore, but I'd like you to have this. It's a copy of Shartan's personal journal, 'A Slave's Life'."

"That certainly isn't necessary, Arianni, but is very kind. Thank you." Myr smiled. "Books are a great interest of mine."

oOo

"If you don't mind a short detour before our appointment with the Viscount, Myr, the Captain of the Guard requested to speak with you if or when you returned to the city," Perren said apologetically as the pair climbed the stairs leading to the large and heavily-armored main doors of the Viscount's Keep, the seat of government in Kirkwall. Perren had returned home from Sundermount late the previous evening to find invitations for himself and the Warden to meet with the Viscount at their earliest convenience. Word of her presence appeared to have spread quickly.

Myr suppressed a sigh. "Certainly. I, too, would be curious about a Warden presence in the city were I Guard-Captain. For some reason, they tend to believe that Wardens are always weighing potential recruits. Which is typically the case." Even Constable Aiden of Amaranthine, while never less than welcoming to the Wardens on a personal level, was less sanguine about their visits on a professional one. Few were as gracious about Warden predation of talented soldiers as Myr's friend, Guard-Captain Kylon of Denerim.

The huge fortress was as imposing inside as out, from the soldiers lining the stairwells and galleries, to the plethora of stylized bronze raptors decorating every column.

"Kirkwaller nobility have an appreciation for vulturekind, I see," Myr murmured to Hawke.

"Though vultures would be more in line with the city's history, I believe they fancy them eagles." Perren smirked and led Myr down a hallway to a common room with a number of guardsmen gaming, relaxing, and laughing together.

"Mahariel told me once that eagles will scavenge just like vultures if the opportunity presents itself; they're just more majestic while they do so."

Perren smiled brightly. "I'll pay you to repeat that to the Seneschal when we speak with him." He turned into the first doorway.

An armored woman with copper hair sat behind a large desk, her head buried in her gauntleted hands. "Varric, the Guard has no jurisdiction over the Port Authority."

Varric was standing across the desk from the woman, craning his head to read the documents under her elbow. Myr was surprised to find that she knew the darker-skinned woman who was sprawled in one of the hearthside chairs, flipping playing cards one by one into an upturned helmet on the other chair. "All I'm saying is that a word to the Harbormaster from a person of your …" Varric nodded at the newcomers, "Myr, please tell me you're in town for a longer visit, and that you brought more of your associates. I've heard all of Blondie's tales, but I'm working on the second entry in my _Rogue Warden_ serial, so I need more material. I'm thinking of _From Weisshaupt With Love_. How does that grab you?"

"_Rogue Warden,_" Myr repeated, aghast. "The central character wouldn't be based on anyone that we know, I hope?"

"Of course not." Varric scoffed. "Velane Madris—born to the mean alleys of Denerim, fated to save a nation and shake the halls of power. But who commands her heart?"

"At the end of book one, the contenders included a dauphin, the Knight-Vigilant, and a sultry hooker with a heart of gold." Isabela stood, smirking, and enfolded Myr in her arms. "I knew you couldn't stand to let me get away, Sweet Lips."

"Mmph!" Myr freed herself from the ample embrace and smiled up at the woman. "Isabela. The last time I saw you, you were … well, clothed. But also planning to weigh anchor for Ayesleigh, I believe?"

"Only because you turned me down and Zev was playing Chantry Sister while he was waiting for that big hunk of Dalish gorgeousness to notice him." Isabela pouted. "Dullest visit to Denerim I can remember. Well, until the Little Prince decided to take me up on my offer of a tour of the Siren."

"Denel? He …" Myr winced. "Now there's an image that's going to be with me for far too long."

The woman behind the desk stood and gave Hawke a significant look.

"Myr, this is Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen, late of Ostagar and the King's Army." Perren nodded at the tall woman. "Aveline, this is Myraene Tabris, the …"

The Guard-Captain started in surprise. "Commander of the Grey and the Hero of Ferelden." She bowed respectfully. "I've wanted to meet you for some time, Commander."

"Thank you, Captain; I've heard of your good work here and at home from Hawke." Myr smiled. "But I am no longer the Warden-Commander; Nathaniel Howe now holds that post."

"There are so many questions I've always wanted to ask about the Blight—what really happened at the Circle Tower, in Orzammar, at … at the Landsmeet."

Myr smiled wearily. "Ah. _That_ Landsmeet, wherein I betrayed a Prince of the Blood to save a slave-mongering usurper. Who then sacrificed himself to save the world, but the histories tend to gloss over that part. It's a long story, Captain, but if you wish to hear it …"

"Enough with the ancient history," Isabela said impatiently. "How many Wardens did you bring with you?"

"Expecting a darkspawn invasion, Rivaini?"

"Two words, Varric: staying power. Let me tell you, the legendary stamina is not to be …"

"No other Wardens this time, Isabela, my apologies." Myr thought for a moment and added, "And my father is strictly off limits. "

"You don't know me."

"Warden, from Hawke's unsubtle motions towards the door, I imagine you have somewhere you need to be," Aveline said. "But please feel free to stop by any time, I would very much enjoy continuing our discussion."

"I look forward to it, Captain."

oOo

"Serah Hawke, I cannot adequately express how comforting it is to know this office can count on you to respond to urgent requests from His Grace." Seneschal Bran finished a few last figures in the large journal on his desk, blew on the lines to set them, and stood. "Eventually," he added coolly.

"Yes, it was terribly rude of me not to be waiting at home for your summons, Bran. Perhaps if His Grace were to issue you a whistle?" Hawke suggested. "Myr, this is the Viscount's seneschal, Bran Guthrey. Bran, this is Myraene Tabris, a Fereldan Grey Warden."

"A storied Fereldan Grey Warden, at that." Bran turned to Myr and bowed. "It is an honor, Warden."

"Thank you, Seneschal." Myr smiled. "Normally the Wardens try to avoid political issues to better focus on our duty, but with my exposure to Qunari customs, my Queen thought I might be able to … add context where I can."

"And that is precisely what we seem to be missing in our interactions thus far." Bran frowned. "His Grace will have told you of the missing delegate. He and his guards disappeared between the Viscount's office and the main doors, and they were not reported as having left by the guards."

"You've searched the keep thoroughly?" Perren asked. "They are a bit on the large and unevenly-tempered side to go with whoever happens to ask."

"Unfortunately, the delegate and his entourage were not at their best, as their swords had been tied into their sheaths." Bran folded his arms and sighed. "My suggestion, I'm afraid. For the safety of His Grace."

"With or without swords, Qunari warriors are fierce combatants," Myr said. "I'd suspect magic as the most likely method to remove a squad cleanly and relatively silently. Though from what I've heard, even the First Enchanter doesn't move freely in Kirkwall."

"In addition, those responsible would need access to the restricted areas of the keep, which implies Guard complicity at some level. Aveline would never be involved in something like this, but enough gold might buy the silence of one or more of her men," Perren said.

"That was our conclusion as well." Bran nodded reluctantly. "As an unofficial investigator, His Grace is hoping that you will be able to go and hear where and what we cannot."

"Does the Arishok know that the emissary and his guard are missing?" Myr asked.

"That is part of the problem." Bran moved to his window, overlooking the docks and the channel. "I don't imagine that you've missed the … lack of respect with which the Arishok views this office. Any messenger we sent would find himself in an uncomfortable position."

"That is a novel term for having one's head lopped off."

"Then we understand each other, Serah Hawke." Bran turned to face them. "I … _we_ are hoping that you can find the path through this that we cannot."

oOo

"This is quite an estate." Myr glanced around the front hall of Fenris' borrowed home as Perren pushed the broken front door closed. The floor was littered with loose tiles and small piles of debris. "Ehm … Hawke? Should we perhaps do something for this poor fellow?" Myr gestured to the dead human sprawled next to a filthy stone bench.

"Fenris told me once that the mansion belonged to an absentee Tevinter merchant before Danarius killed him and sent his slave hunters here. I have come to believe he was less a merchant and more a necromancer, if this, uh, underdecayed gentleman and his brother upstairs are any indication. I believe Fenris keeps them where they are for deterrent purposes."

Perren led Myr up the main staircase. A door to the right opened into a large room, cleared of furniture and remains. Fenris didn't notice them at first; clad only in leggings and the lyrium designs that coiled around his arms and snaked about his chest and shoulders, he seemed completely absorbed in the patterns he wove with his body and the huge sword. Candlelight reflected off the blade and the warrior's bronze skin, glimmering with lyrium and sweat. Myr felt her cheeks grow warm and dropped her gaze, unnerved by her reaction.

Fenris noticed the two as his routine wound down, and he broke off, breathing deeply. He retrieved a cloth and leaned his blade against the wall; flushing slightly, he turned away and started to dry his face and arms. "Hawke, Myraene."

Perren quickly explained about the abduction. "We need to inform the Arishok of the missing delegation. I was hoping that you were free to join us, since you're the only one of us to whom he's shown any significant lack of disgust."

"Of course. I will just be a moment," he said pointedly, his back still to them.

"I'm a bit surprised that the Arishok has been willing to speak with _bas saarebas_, truthfully," Myr told Perren as they waited near the stairs. "Though I suppose you weren't carrying your staff. I've grown so used to the freedom enjoyed by the Warden mages that it seems strange that apostates need hide their status."

"Anders did not give me the impression that he thought himself free as a Warden mage."

"I'm not sure that Anders has felt entirely free in any situation that he's found himself, in any phase of his life," Myr said. "I'm not sure that he'd recognize freedom to see it anymore."

"I doubt that his personal freedom is what most concerns him now. Since his merging with Justice, he seems to see himself as a voice or symbol for the freedom of all mages," Perren replied as Fenris joined them. "I can't help wondering if the Circle mages are as united in purpose as he seems to believe, but I've never been one of them. As Anders is quick to point out."

"Anders listens to no opinion that does not fit his skewed view of the world," Fenris stated. "You must know this by now, Hawke."

"We all have our own skewed view of the world, Fenris," Perren said mildly.

"Speaking of which, keeping the Arishok waiting probably isn't the wisest idea," Myr pointed out.

"Of course. Because informing him in person that we misplaced his delegation will proceed much better if we're really _prompt_ about it." Perren turned resolutely towards the door.


	10. Raging Bull

_Many thanks to everyone following along, and particularly those who have left reviews—they are appreciated more than I can say. Special thanks to mille libri for the help and encouragement with a challenging chapter._

**Raging Bull**

Myr had never thought to feel physically intimidated by Sten, even when he threatened to take over leadership of their company when hunting the Ashes of Andraste in the Frostbacks. Here, without her Wardens at her back and surrounded by dozens of armed Qunari in this temporary compound, it was … different. She gritted her teeth against the anxiety and waited with Fenris while Perren told the Arishok of his delegate's disappearance.

The Qunari leader gazed at Perren silently for a time, then rose and slowly descended the stairs. He loomed over them, his enormous axe resting on one shoulder. "Your _vasheden_ Viscount sends you in his place to tell me of his dereliction. He is weak, but perhaps not wholly a fool." He thought for a moment, eyeing the three. "Should I take his delegate, as subjects of his have taken mine? Would that spur him to action at last?"

"I think that you—I mean …" Perren cleared his throat. "I would encourage you to consider the likely success of whoever the Viscount might send to negotiate with those who hold your emissary, Arishok," Perren said. "You yourself have alluded to the suspicion shown your people."

"Perhaps," the Arishok allowed, and turned to Myr and Fenris. "Perhaps I shall instead keep your elves, to encourage your success."

It was time for a measured risk. Myr stepped forward and bowed before Perren could reply. "_Arishokost. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Ataash varin kata_."

The soldiers closest to the group tensed, intent on their leader. A long moment passed. Finally the Arishok tilted his massive head slightly. "Your accent is superior to that of the male."

"The male might not have had the benefit of a year's association with a Sten," she suggested.

"You are the Grey Warden the Sten reported. The one he named _kadan_."

Myr looked up—and up. "It was my privilege to be considered such by the Sten.

The Qunari watched her silently for a moment. "The Sten was of the opinion that your word had worth. You will see to the delegate, and those who hold him."

"I give you my word that I shall try my best."

"Then we shall see the best that the Grey Wardens can achieve." The Arishok turned back to the stairs in a clear dismissal.

Aveline was waiting a short distance from the Qunari compound; behind her stood a half-dozen guardsmen. Myr could see several more speaking with the Harbormaster and casually glancing their way, while another four patrolled nearby.

Hawke waved them to a quiet corner off the main street. "You can probably stand down the army, Aveline. I seem to have my head still attached."

"If I knew what to expect from them I wouldn't need this many guardsmen as backup. Or perhaps many more." She lowered her voice. "We have a problem. Bran was right about Guard involvement; a patrolman witnessed the emissary and his guards being led out of the keep by one of my lieutenants and two other guards, none of which have returned to the barracks. But Hawke, they were accompanied by several Templars."

"Templars?" Myr repeated. "What interest would your Chantry be taking in negotiations between the Viscount and the Qunari?"

Briefly, Perren told her of their meeting with a Chantry Sister the previous year, leading to the deaths of a _saarebas_ and the squad of Qunari that had been hunting him. "Despite the strong evidence of a set-up on the part of Petrice, the Grand Cleric refused to act against her, citing contradictory testimony from the Sister and Ser Varnell."

"So you suspect a new move against the Qunari by this Sister Petrice?" Myr asked.

"That's what I intend to find out. Fenris, would you alert Anders and Merrill and meet us at the Hanged Man? Myr, it might be wise for you to accompany Fenris so you know where Anders lives if you need him."

oOo

"It's Dust Town for surfacers," Maynee muttered under her breath as they made their way through the garbage-strewn tunnels of Darktown towards Anders' clinic. "It's like being back home; makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

Merrill glanced around at the clumps of filth and desperate people and smiled tentatively. "Oh, how nice to have a reminder of your home. I think the same thing when I hear the whippoorwills calling to each other outside my window at night. They remind me of deep forests and cool autumn evenings with my clan." She stopped and cocked her head at the dwarf. "Oh, right. Sarcasm. Well, not everything was butterflies and rainbows, you know. Junar used to put beetles in my bedroll, and when game was scarce we sometimes went days with nothing but greens and nuts."

"Our food was the lichen that we scraped off damp tunnel walls. A special occasion was when we caught a nug too disease-ridden or full up on garbage to outrun us." Maynee folded her arms and glared at the little mage.

"Um. A squirrel bit me on the leg when I was seven."

Myr followed Fenris past a group of children huddled around a fire, to the end of a long corridor. The double doors were closed, but the lantern was lit. A woman in a threadbare dress waited just outside, holding a limp child.

A small, pale man exited the clinic, followed by Anders. The man was holding his bandaged arm and thanking the mage profusely, trying to press some coins on him. When Anders waved him off, the man bent and left the coppers on the ground instead, then hurried off.

"Mage. Hawke requires our assistance; fetch your pack," Fenris ordered the taller man.

"I have a patient; Hawke will need to wait." Anders turned to the waiting woman and picked up her child, carrying him into the clinic.

"Anders, it's …" Myr broke off as she followed him. A pair of battered chairs and a cabinet took up one wall of the small room; the examination table and a bench with a basin and rags took up much of the rest. An alcove at the back held a cot and a small press.

The child was barely conscious, and pale as snow apart from the hectic patches of red on his gaunt cheeks. Anders questioned his mother as he felt the boy's thin wrists, then his neck. He looked in the boy's mouth, looked in his eyes and laid the back of his hand against the boy's cheek for a long moment. Anders closed his eyes, stretched his arms out over the boy and started to whisper, his hands glowing slightly.

Maynee huffed in suppressed anger as she watched Anders work on the boy, her expression darkening by the moment. Finally she turned on the frightened woman. "When was the last time the boy had anything to eat?" she demanded.

"H-he had a bit of bread ye-yesterday. Sometimes the older girl, she f-finds a rat not too long dead."

"Ancestors' bleeding bollocks," Maynee swore and dug in her belt purse, handing the startled woman a small handful of silver. "Get some food and fire wood. If the girl finds more rats, at least cook them first. Rats are even filthier than people."

The woman's eyes went round, and she clutched the precious coins tightly. "Th-th-th …" she stammered, but Maynee had already retreated to the far wall, grumbling and taking a cloth to her spotless daggers.

Anders was perspiring freely and visibly beginning to tire. Myr opened the cabinet to find it bare, apart from a half-loaf of stale bread, a small stack of rags, and two empty lyrium phials. A glance back at Anders showed him trembling, the glow fading. At the end of his endurance, he broke off and wavered on his feet. Myr grabbed one of the rickety chairs and got it behind his knees as he collapsed.

The flush had faded noticeably from the boy's cheeks, and his general color seemed much improved. Still too flustered from Maynee's crusty generosity to offer more than halting, tearful thanks and a low bow to Anders, the mother gathered up her son and left the clinic.

Anders half-opened his eyes. "S'sorry, long day. Give me a minute."

Disregarding the mage's privacy, Myr dug through his belt purse until she found a small, half-empty phial. She popped the cork and placed it in Anders' hand, and he downed it in one swallow.

"Dammit, that was my last one." Anders sighed and levered himself to his feet with Myr's assistance. "All right, I'm ready." Anders retrieved his staff and a small pack of supplies; at the door of the clinic, he turned back to find her staring silently at the table. "Myr?"

Myr shook her head, dismissing the lingering vision of the mother and son. She pulled a pouch of coins out of her belt purse and left it next to the basin. "I'm sure you need healing supplies, things of that nature." She hurried around him to catch up with the others.

oOo

Obviously familiar with Fenris, Merrill, and Anders, the bartender at the Hanged Man nodded them towards Varric's suite at the top of the stairs. Aveline and Perren had already arrived, and were poring over a hastily-drawn map. Isabela reclined next to Varric, boots on the table, whispering to the crossbow cradled in the dwarf's hands.

With them was a tall man with dark reddish-brown hair, checking his quivers and bow. Maynee stopped in her tracks, pointing at the man's spotless, white enameled armor, gold-chased and gleaming. A carved ivory and gold likeness of Andraste smiled her benison from his belt. "By the Stone, what is …"

"Thank you all for coming." Perren interrupted the stupefied dwarf. "Sebastian, I'm pleased to introduce Myraene Tabris, Grey Warden and Hero of Ferelden, and Maynee Brosca, one of the Blight Companions. Myr, Maynee, this is Sebastian Vael, heir to the throne of Starkhaven and avowed Brother of the Chantry. "

"You do try to toss that 'hero' business in whenever you can, don't you, Hawke?" Myr laughed and bowed to Sebastian. "Your Highness."

"Just Sebastian, please, Warden. It's in the Maker's hands whether I rule or even see Starkhaven again."

"Whereas all of Starkhaven can probably see you from there, in that poncy armor," Maynee muttered.

Isabela laughed and looked the dwarf up and down. "You're a nasty little bugger, aren't you? Why haven't we had sex yet?"

"Save it, Tits," Maynee said dismissively. "I'm out of your league."

"See, now you've just made it a challenge."

"I get that a lot. Just keep it in your pants."

"What pa …"

"If we might return to the business at hand, ladies?" Ignoring Isabela's disappointed sigh, Perren told them of his trouble in speaking with the Grand Cleric, in seclusion according to now-Mother Petrice. "We will probably need to address the Petrice problem in the very near future, but for now she gave us the location where Varnell is holding the Qunari. If she's to be believed, they are in the Undercity, not far from the house where they kept Ketojan."

"The same section of the Undercity that leads out to the cliffs?" Varric mused. "That presents some possibilities for the sneak-inclined among us."

Myr grinned. "Are you planning a surprise for the Templars, Milord Tethras? I love surprises."

oOo

Fenris and Anders accompanied Myr and Varric as they made their way through the tunnels to the supposed meeting place in the Undercity. Fenris privately, and grudgingly, admitted that he had never seen anyone move as silently as the Warden did, far in advance of the others, slowing only when she needed to consult with them on direction.

If Varric was to be believed, Myraene was haunting the night streets of Denerim at twelve and breaking into noble estates at thirteen. Fenris had dismissed the claim as yet another hero-building exercise on the dwarf's part; the likelihood of an elven child evading both the Guard and the gangs for years was next to nil. Watching her ghost along silently ahead of them, checking each dark side-passage and dusty alcove, often disappearing into the shadows entirely, Fenris found it more difficult to discount Varric's tales.

Studying her, Fenris's thoughts strayed close to paths he had denied himself as far back as he could remember. Cursing silently, he put the foolish diversion aside; she was a competent Warden and a valuable ally. It was the difference in how she held herself, how she spoke her mind, that set her apart from Danarius's female slaves and hangers-on—novelty, nothing more. The anger at his lapse in control eased somewhat, and Fenris returned to his study.

Myr stopped suddenly and raised one hand to signal a halt. While Varric and Anders took the opportunity to catch their breath, Fenris watched as she disabled the crude spring trap and dug at the walls of the tunnel. She walked back to where the men rested.

"I always enjoy using an adversary's weapons against them," Myr whispered as she handed the half-dozen bolts to Varric. "We're close, and I don't believe Hawke and the others are there yet. Give me a few minutes to get in place."

"What if you're seen, Myraene?" Fenris heard himself ask. "This is reckless."

Myr looked up at him in surprise for a moment, before looking quickly away. "I'll be careful." She turned and ran silently back down the tunnel.

"We should …" Fenris turned to Varric, who was gazing at him and frowning slightly, seemingly lost in thought. "Something you need, Varric?"

"Me? No. Just wishing I had thought to bring my journal, is all."

"Do not think to include me in any of your fables, dwarf."

"Tsk. A little late for that, isn't it?" Varric smirked and headed off in the direction in which Myr had disappeared.

Down the tunnel and up a flight of stairs, and Fenris could start to make out fragments of what sounded like a sermon or invocation.

"... and so are accursed in the Maker's sight. We do His work this day by sending these beasts back to the Void which spawned them."

Varric peered around the corner of the shadowed hallway. He watched for a moment while the Templar continued his exhortations, then drew back and whispered, "Four Qunari, bound. Five Templars and a dozen others, armed. I don't see Myr ..."

"Varnell!"

"Right on time, Hawke." Varric smirked as he unslung Bianca. "This should get very interesting, very quickly."

"This does not concern you, Serah Hawke; you and your servants defile this sacred gathering. Tarry, and I shall do my duty and perform the Rite on you here and now."

"Is this how you show the supposed superiority of your doctrine?" Fenris could hear the sneer in Hawke's voice. "Abduction? Torture? Do you act as would Andraste, or the Archons?"

"Blasphemer! 'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter'," Varnell quoted furiously.

"The spittle is flying; won't be long now," Varric noted.

"Doesn't the Chant also bless the 'peacekeepers, the champions of the just'?" Hawke quoted.

"Maleficar! 'Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written'," Varnell snarled. "Righteous! Destroy them!"

Fenris drew his weapon and charged around the corner. The four Qunari were kneeling and bound to two support beams, their captors ranged in front of them. Behind him, Anders and Varric were moving. Backed by several heavily armored templars, the worshipers fanned out to attack Hawke and the others. Myraene was not among the combatants, but neither did she seem to have been captured.

Shouting unintelligibly, Varnell stepped towards the Qunari delegate and raised his sword. Before he could bring it down, the Qunari surged to his feet, shaking off coils of rope. Huge hands closed on the Templar's neck; a flex of heavily-muscled arms, and Varnell dropped to the floor in a crash of steel.

Now visible on the near side of the broken stone support, Myr sawed at the second Qunari's bonds, pausing once to send a knife spinning at an older man with a bow who was sighting on Merrill. Her line of sight blocked by the pillar and the huge Qunari, she didn't seem to see the Templar lieutenant turn her way.

As the Templar stepped around the kneeling giant and lifted his sword, Fenris charged, meeting the surprised man's hastily-raised shield and sending him stumbling back, off balance. The second Qunari freed, Myr disappeared into the fray.

Fenris dodged a swing from the Templar lieutenant's blade, only to meet the edge of his shield; thrown back against the stone pillar, Fenris struggled to raise his sword to block the man's follow-up. A knife clattered against the Templar's helm, falling away harmlessly; it was distraction enough for Fenris to get his sword up underneath the taller man's shield arm, stabbing into his unprotected armpit. Bellowing, the man fell back, and a perfectly-aimed bolt from Bianca buried itself in man's throat.

The two freed Qunari were vigorously and viciously defending their own. As their ringleaders fell one by one, several of the acolytes fled and more were seeking escape. Hawke and the others allowed them to flee.

One huge, raging Templar had Myr hard-pressed, defending Anders and Varric. Evading a huge swing of the man's two-handed hammer, Myr collided with the dwarf and both tumbled to the ground. Before the Templar could raise his weapon again, Fenris was there; lyrium blazing, he plunged his gauntleted hand into the man's back. The Templar jerked once, then fell heavily to the ground.

The Templars were dead, their followers gone or killed. Fenris reached a hand to help Myr up, remembering too late the thick blood that coated it. Myr gravely accepted the assistance. "Thank you, Fenris." She smiled tentatively, then bent to wipe her hand on the dead Templar's skirt.

Myr nodded to the delegate. "_Kost. Maraas Shokra_." Briefly, she described their position and indicated the direction of Lowtown, and beyond that, the Docks.

"_Anaan esaam qun."_ The delegate nodded in return. Gathering his bodyguards with a word, the four left in the direction that Myr indicated.

Perren looked around in confusion. "Where is Isabe …"

"Wait your turn, Hawke," Aveline demanded, looming over Myr. "First, the Warden is going to tell me why she let Qunari warriors loose in a developing situation, when they could easily have killed all of those moronic sycophants or any one of us?"

"I would leave no one bound and helpless," Myr replied in a tight voice. "They would have been killed."

"Just leave it lie, Aveline," Varric murmured under his breath.

"Myr told you about her conscription?" Anders' whisper didn't carry past the three of them.

"Everyone tells me everything, Blondie."

Mouse's low growl echoed in the still chamber. The sound seemed to break through Myr's anger and she relaxed slightly, running her fingers through his bloody fur.

"The Viscount asked us to ensure the delegate's survival using all reasonable means, Aveline," Perren said. "I should have made that clear; my apologies. But really, where is …"

"No, Hawke. I should never have lost my temper. Please accept my apology, Guard-Captain." Myr bowed slightly to the tall woman.

Aveline sighed and extended her hand. "And mine, Warden. Now what were you saying about Isabela, Hawke?"

Isabela looked up from where she was kneeling next to Varnell, sorting through his belt purse. "Yes, what were you saying about me, Hawke?" She smirked and handed a folded piece of parchment to Perren.

"Where were you just … never mind, I'm sure I don't want to know." Perren frowned at the parchment. "The authorization to 'escort' the Qunari from the Keep, with the Grand Cleric's seal. What kind of idiot keeps implicating documents on his person after the deed is done?"

"Dirty bastard probably kept everything Petrice touched, for … ah, never mind." Anders flushed slightly.

"Thank you for the disturbing imagery, Anders. I think we're done here."

oOo

Where the Viscount's Keep was impressive with its columned approach to its immense, armored doors, the Chantry was … intimidating, Myr decided. Two huge bronze templars held stylized man catchers aloft over the grand staircase, while ranks of robed statues with drawn swords scrutinized the faithful as they drew near.

Inside, Myr's gaze was drawn up the main aisle, past the tall bronzes of robed men holding thuribles, past the velvet-draped chancel. Behind the carved wooden altar rose a three story, gilded Andraste, garbed in what appeared to be an ornate variant of templar armor and holding aloft a massive sword.

"Dreadful taste, isn't it?" Perren whispered to Myr as they made their way around the priestesses and parishioners.

"It's very, erm, grand," Myr temporized.

Perren laughed. "And you don't credit yourself a diplomat, Myr. Can you imagine a gilded, sword-wielding, Templar-Andraste in any chantry in Ferelden?"

Myr thought privately that the Prophetess might be somewhat appalled at the political use to which Her image was being put, but said nothing as Perren greeted the grey-haired woman speaking with Sebastian near the altar. He introduced Myr to Grand Cleric Elthina and laid out their discoveries regarding the abduction of the Qunari delegates, the Templars involved, and the incriminating document.

"Please forgive my inattention, Your Grace." A senior clergywoman with blond, short-cropped hair hurried up the stairs to the chancel and bobbed a curtsey to the Grand Cleric. From Hawke's description, the frowning woman could only be Mother Petrice. "I thought that I had made it clear to Sister Eudora that you were not to be …"

Elthina nodded to her subordinate calmly. "Serah Hawke has brought us troubling news, Mother. It seems one of our shepherds has strayed."

A brief pause, then Petrice nodded sadly. "Yes, Your Grace. I thought not to trouble you until the incident had been verified. I take it you found the Templar you sought, Serah Hawke. The shame that he brought to his calling is most unfortunate."

"Too true," Hawke agreed. "That he also led four of his fellow Templars down this path of violence and blind hatred seems to hint at a troubled, even disturbed, mind."

Myr watched as Sebastian's calm expression turned slightly pinched, and he started to perspire. "Now Hawke, perhaps we shouldn't presume to …"

"On the contrary, Sebastian, I think we all need to ask hard questions of ourselves in times such as these." Hawke seemed to warm to his subject. "Would it not have been more just, more worthy, to try to bring these poor, misguided souls to the Maker? To show these lost ones the light of truth?"

"Well-spoken, Serah Hawke." Elthina smiled gently at him. "Your grandmother would be very proud."

Perren lowered his eyes. "Of that I cannot be sure, Your Grace, for I failed to bring the real culprit to justice."

"What do you mean?" Petrice demanded. "Varnell and the others are dead. This unfortunate episode is over."

"I am loath to contradict you, Mother, but as we discussed earlier, the Templars would need authorization to remove the Qunari from the Keep."

"I still don't …"

"In fact, the guards questioned reported that the Templars had an authorization with Her Grace's seal, as I've just told her."

"I highly doubt that guardsmen are trained to recognize authentic Chantry documents, Serah Hawke." Petrice scoffed.

Perren nodded and smiled, then reached into an inner cloak pocket. "Very true, Mother. But in this instance they didn't need to, as Ser Varnell had the document on his person." He handed a roll of parchment to the Grand Cleric. "Of course, I wouldn't think that templars would normally have access to Her Grace's seal, so although it grieves me to suggest it, he must have had assistance from someone in the Chantry hierarchy itself."

The Mother smiled tightly. "But of course, Serah Hawke. It will take some time, of course; utmost care must be taken to maintain the sanctity of the Chantry. An internal investigation would be most appropriate, I think."

"I will decide on the course of investigation, Mother," Elthina said firmly. "Serah Hawke. As you can imagine, even the possibility of Chantry involvement in this matter could cause great damage to the image of the Chantry. Might I ask for your discretion in this matter, at least until the investigation is completed?"

"Of course, Your Grace. I shall speak of it to no one who was not involved." Perren bowed slightly and motioned Myr to the stairs, only to turn back. "Pardon my forgetfulness. The Viscount and the Seneschal have been apprised of the situation, of course."

A quiet sigh escaped Elthina. "I see. Well, that will need to be managed."

"Yes, the Viscount seemed quite anxious to speak of it with you."

"He did? The Viscount wishing to speak with the Grand Cleric, I mean," Myr whispered to Hawke as the massive doors of the Chantry closed behind them.

"Seemed anxious, seemed like he would rather be torn apart by darkspawn—really, it can be so difficult to judge expressions sometimes." Hawke chuckled as he set off for the estate. "I hope you can stay for dinner, Myr. Mother wants to hear all about this Sigrun that she's sure is corrupting her virginal younger son, and Bodahn mentioned that he's making a stew from a recipe he learned from one of your companions during the Blight."

An image of congealed grey lumps swam up out of Myr's memory. "Couldn't be. Even Sandal wouldn't eat that."

oOo

"What could they be discussing? It's been an hour at least." Perren was slouched on one corner of Seneschal Bran's elegant desk, turning a small hourglass in his fingers idly. The twice-delayed meeting between the Viscount and Myr, speaking on behalf of her Queen Anora, was running long.

"I couldn't say, Serah Hawke." Bran plucked the timepiece out of Perren's fingers and placed it in a drawer. "Might I add that there are perfectly comfortable chairs in the antechamber."

Perren cocked his head and peered down at the Seneschal, seemingly absorbed in the tiny columns of numbers in the ledger open in front of him. Attractive enough, in a repressed and repressive sort of way, and shamefully enjoyable to goad. Perren smirked and reached for a roll of parchment.

Bran plucked the scroll out from underneath Perren's fingers, placing it in the drawer with the hourglass. He frowned and stabbed a finger at a chair opposite, and Perren slid off the desk.

"Might you have a scrap of parchment and a second quill, Bran?

Bran sighed and handed him a small sheet and quill, then went back to his figures. Perren leaned back in the chair and scratched on the parchment, periodically leaning forward to dip the quill and smile glibly at the seneschal. "Is Bran short for something?" Perren asked after a time.

"Only his temper. Which he is rapidly losing, Serah Hawke." Bran glared at him over his glasses.

"Surely not. He is the very model of forbearance." Perren thought for a moment. "Is it Brandel?"

"No."

"Branweis?"

"No."

"Brantleigh? Brandolin? Brandywine?"

"Pardon me for the intrusion, gentlemen," Myr said from the doorway.

"No intrusion I'm sure, Warden," Bran assured her, and stood.

"I'll find out, Bran. I have people." Perren blew on the parchment to set the ink and returned the borrowed quill. He folded the small sheet and tucked it under the inkwell, then turned to follow Myr out.

"Yes, I've met some of them, lucky me. I'd wish you luck on your quest …"

"But you don't."

"My, you are the smart one."

Bran stared at the parchment for a moment before sliding it out and unfolding it. Not a list at all, it was instead a fair sketch of Bran himself as he bent over his work, brows drawn together in annoyance. He started to crush the scrap, then unaccountably smoothed it out and placed it in the drawer with the hourglass and the scroll. Shaking his head slightly, the seneschal returned to his numbers.

oOo

"I'm home, Father. I brought the …" Myr stopped as she turned to find a second person at the table with Cyrion. "Fenris. I'm surprised to … I mean, welcome." She faltered to a stop, unaccountably flustered.

"You sound distracted, Myraene. I'll be interested to hear of your appointment with the Viscount." The twinkle in Cyrion's eye gave lie to his bland tone.

"Your father is teaching me chess." Fenris inclined his head respectfully to the older man. "It is an interesting game."

"Do they not play chess in the Imperium?" Cyrion asked.

"It is a pursuit of the magisters; there would be no point in teaching it to a slave, as none would dare attempt to win." Fenris stood and nodded to them both. "Thank you for a pleasant game, Cyrion. Myraene."

"Please stay for dinner, Fenris; we have plenty." Cyrion smiled and motioned him back to his chair.

"I do not wish to intrude..."

"Nonsense." Myr's father stood and took the bottle of wine out of her hands. "I'll check on the rabbit. Myraene, why don't you share some stories of your companions with Fenris, while I finish dinner?"

Her Blight companions, yes; there were many innocuous tales to fill the time before the meal. Suddenly, Myr found she could not recall a one of them.


	11. The Fugitive

_Thank you to everyone following along and reviewing. Many thanks to mille libri for the excellent suggestions and beta goodness._

**The Fugitive**

"Carver?"

He tried to follow the familiar female voice, but it swirled away into the heavier mists of the Fade. Carver shifted on his pallet in Gamlen's flat, trying to ease muscles stiff with cold. Despite their attempts at filling the chinks in the thin wattle-and-daub walls, the biting wind found its way in.

There was a welcome island of heat at his back. Fidget normally curled herself next to Perren, but Carver wasn't about to shoo away the blessed warmth, even when she breathed her moist breath onto the nape of his neck. The dog's breath didn't typically smell like spiced cider, though, and—what was she …

Nip. "Carver, I'm freezing."

He was in his room at the Vigil, still shivering. The nibbling was courtesy of a shapely dwarf pressed to his back; a vast improvement on his brother's mabari.

Nip. "Your fire's gone out, Carver."

"Heh. No, it hasn't." He turned, taking back some of the stolen blankets and reaching for his bedmate, who giggled and slapped at him as she tried to evade his icy hands.

"You're a child." Sigrun laughed. "A bloody cold one!"

"Is that so?" Carver whispered against Sigrun's soft lips, while chilled fingers traced the inside of her thigh, making her twitch and jump. He pressed himself against her leg. "A child, am I?"

One small hand skimmed over Carver's muscled chest and flat stomach, vainly reaching towards some far goal. "Freakishly outsized surfacers," Sigrun complained. "There is something to be said for economy of design, you know."

Carver pressed again. "Sure about that, are you?"

"I am open to persuasion, if you believe yourself up to the task, Warden."

"That, Senior Warden, can hardly be in doubt."

~oOo~

Aene Mahariel arrived at the Vigil a few days later, at the leading edge of a powerful late-spring storm. Sodden and bedraggled, long dark hair plastered to his face and cloak, he barely nodded at Nathaniel and Eren before making for the huge fireplace at the rear of the Great Hall, shedding packs, cloak, and gloves as he went.

"You didn't come over the mountains by yourself, did you, Aene?" Eren asked.

"No. Our newest recruit is dealing with the horses." He held his hands out over the fire and sighed in relief. "Idiot weather; it snowed on us in the mountains. Where are Carroll and, um, Antler?"

"Entler," Nathaniel corrected. "He's on patrol with Finn, Perth, and a squad of city soldiers up in the Wending Woods. Once the barrier doors there and in the Knotwood Hills get finished, we'll be able to step down the patrols a bit. Until that happens, the farmers are nervous."

"I should think they'd be, especially in the Hills," Aene said. "Some of those tunnels that the Children burrowed out were so close to the surface that you could sink a well and strike dead darkspawn before you do water."

"The Legionnaires that are working with Denel have mapped the tunnels extensively," Eren assured him. "We wouldn't want our people to eat anything grown in the areas where the tunnels are just underground anyway, so those fields are marked off as Crown land, and the farmers reimbursed. That doesn't exactly reassure them that they won't be carried off in the middle of the night, however."

"The doors should be finished by Solace," Nathaniel said. "Bhelen had plenty of motivation to send us all of the engineers, metalsmiths, and warriors he could possibly spare. There is history and riches in equal weight down there."

"I hope the Wardens will see some of the latter." Aene grinned.

"A … finders fee, if you will," Nathaniel allowed, with a ghost of a smile. "But why the curiosity about our Templar-trained recruits? And what brought you out in the stormiest Justinian in recent memory?"

Another soggy visitor was being divested of his muddy cloak and multitude of parcels. The black-haired man looked towards the fireplace and the other Wardens as if he wasn't sure of his welcome.

"Aene," Eren whispered after a brief, stunned silence, "have you lost your mind?"

~oOo~

Freshly bathed, warm, and dry, Aene showed his new recruit to the Wardens' private dining room. Eren had a heaping tray of sandwiches and tea sent up in the interim; Aene dropped the two small packs he carried and fell on the sandwiches like a starving wolf. His companion ate his one sandwich slowly, his gaze fixed on the plate in front of him.

"Jowan," Eren finally addressed him; the young man jumped and dropped his sandwich. "I seem to recall a promise that you made to former Commander Myr two years ago; a promise that none of us would ever see you again."

"W-w-w …"

Aene wiped his mouth and leaned back in the chair. "Jowan didn't seek us out. Keenan and I found him on the way back from Highever last month; he was helping a family of elves who had been attacked by bandits on their way to Denerim. He could've ran when he saw us, but he chose to finish healing the wounded, even though he knew it was quite likely that I'd remember him. The mysterious 'Levyn' that we'd heard tales of during and after the Blight? The mage that would show up to save refugees from darkspawn attacks or heal wounded travelers?" Aene indicated the nervous mage with a nod.

"Also a blood mage, who was directly responsible for Delia Amell's conscription by Duncan, and indirectly responsible for her death at our Joining," Eren snapped.

"Yes, conscripted by Duncan—a thief and a murderer," Aene rejoined. "Or are we only accepting plaster saints now?"

Eren brought her hand down hard on the table. "Dammit, Aene! We're not debating your right to conscript whoever you feel will make an effective Warden. Conscript the Black Divine himself for all I care." She paused and straightened in her chair. "But you weren't at the Tower with Duncan and Myr, as I was."

"There isn't anything I can say or do to make up for what I've done. There's no mitigating circumstances, no excuse, no defense." Jowan spoke into the sudden silence. "The former Warden-Commander left me my life, and the only way I can think to try to make up for what I've done is to give it back."

"I see," Eren said finally. "It is done, and your history is your own. Many of our brothers and sisters have made peace with their pasts in the Wardens; I hope for all our sakes that the same can be said for you, Jowan."

"I would've preferred if you had consulted me before recruiting a person of interest to the Chantry, Aene," Nathaniel said quietly, "but it is your right to recruit as you see fit. Welcome to the Wardens, Jowan; may you serve long and with distinction."

"Thank you, Commander, Arlessa," Jowan replied soberly. "I don't intend to give any of the Wardens reason to regret Senior Warden Mahariel's choice."

Nathaniel nodded slightly in acceptance. "I'm left with my original question, Aene. What brought you down out of the mountains in storm season?"

Aene reached for the two satchels he brought from his room. The larger he pushed down the table towards Nathaniel and Eren. "We ran into the post courier from Amaranthine outside the Vigil. Quite literally; his horse was spooked by some lightning and almost rode us down." He opened the smaller pack and slid another letter to Eren. "And one more from your brother."

"What have you there?" Nathaniel asked, indicating the small leather case that Aene had unwrapped from its cocoon of wool batting.

Aene opened the case and removed one of the dozen small, cloth-wrapped phials, placing it gently on the table. The red liquid inside seemed to glow subtly. "Avernus has perhaps a year to live—a bit less, if he keeps abusing his health. He barely sleeps, doesn't leave his workroom, can only occasionally be convinced to eat. Fortunately he gets on with Jowan better than that Chantry mouse Meret, and is sharing his research with him."

Eren nodded at the phial. "Is that another improved Joining mixture?"

"Yes, but significantly different from his prior efforts. In the past, he had concerned himself primarily with recruit survival, but he has left off that effort." Aene's lip curled slightly. "He seems to believe a certain percentage of … loss … strengthens the Wardens as a whole, preventing weak candidates from diluting our ranks."

"Now there is the ethical sinkhole I remember," Eren muttered under her breath.

"There is nothing to suggest that those that don't survive the Joining are any less capable than those that do," Nathaniel said. "Can you not simply order Avernus to do as he's told?"

Aene smiled humorlessly. "You've only met him the once, Nathaniel. I push him too hard, and I'd find myself rendered for soap between one breath and the next. Avernus tolerates me as a Warden brother; I am in no way his 'superior'."

"We can discuss his disposition later, Aene," Eren said. "What is this latest improvement?"

"First, he has discovered a way to preserve the, ah, fluid component of the mixture indefinitely, so we will no longer require fresh darkspawn blood." He paused and placed his hands flat on the table. "If he is to be believed, Avernus claims that this formula will greatly extend the protection from the degenerative effects of the Taint that Wardens enjoy early in their careers—even for Wardens that are well past their Joinings. It has the potential to allow Wardens to live near-normal lifespans. Well, as normal as a life chock-a-block with darkspawn, giant spiders, and flying lizards allows."

Eren was the first to find her voice. "A normal lifespan. A somewhat more normal … life."

Nathaniel shook his head slightly. "What proof do we have that it will work?"

"Next to none, except for his word. He claims that it is based on the formula which has allowed him to live well into his third century." Aene raised his hand to delay the inevitable comments on the mage's trustworthiness. "But we have some evidence that it is at least not harmful. In the short term, at any rate."

"You took it yourself."

"Yes I did, Nathaniel. I would never risk the life of the Warden-Commander without some proof that the potion was at the very least not immediately toxic," Aene admitted calmly.

"Once again, I would have appreciated being consulted beforehand." Nathaniel frowned. "But what's done is done. We'll discuss how to proceed with this new formula at another time. Anything else to share that can't or shouldn't wait for the other Wardens?"

"Just keep the templar-Wardens under control and away from my recruit. I didn't drag him halfway across Ferelden and eat his rabbit flambé every night for a week to have him wind up a marionette."

~oOo~

"What did Fergus have to say?" Nathaniel asked as he and Eren relaxed with some brandy before retiring for the night.

Eren smirked as she recalled the careful wording. "He doesn't seem to be aware that Anora had already asked after his ambitions and prospects with his sister. He went on at great length about the surprising invitation to discuss matters of state at the palace, and how modest and pleasant he found the Queen."

"So no announcements of any kind at this early date? Is that the extent of his news?"

"He said there have been two attempts by Orlesian bards, elves, to infiltrate the palace staff." Eren read further and nodded approvingly. "Her Majesty seems to have taken Myr's example to heart, however, and has had every external window and door lock tightened or changed. And she must have put the fear of the Maker into the Palace Guard—anyone entering the servant's entrance is all but turned upside down and shaken."

Nathaniel smiled briefly before turning serious again. "A wise precaution for the main entrance as well, if perhaps not to the same degree. What about Myr's letter?"

Eren shook her head. "She's apparently fallen in with some shady characters already." She thought for a moment and shrugged. "More or less the same sort she fell in with during the Blight."

_I think I told you of Varric when we were home a few weeks ago. If I might ask—if you find any copies of a book titled _'Rogue Warden'_ circulating the Vigil, be a friend and burn them unread, won't you? I would like to return to the country of my birth one day. _

_You will likely remember Isabela? She's much the same; a bit more of the same, perhaps. Seems to have lost her wardrobe when the Qunari attacked her ship, poor thing._

_I'm watching our common friend closely. He hasn't done anything requiring me to step in yet, and he seems to help a number of very desperate people. For now, I will wait. _

_Warmest greetings from Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven; his letter should follow mine directly. He seems quite a devout man, and dedicated to the Chantry. He mentioned that you may not remember him as such, Nathaniel—I smell a story there._

_An escaped Tevinter slave named Fenris frequently accompanies Hawke on missions as well._

"That's all?" Nathaniel asked. "We got more about Hawke's mabari. She must not like him."

Eren raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps." The amusement vanished. "What … what was she thinking? Oh, Aene."

"What? What is it?"

_Do you remember Merrill, Marethari's First? I can't quite grasp how she managed it, as she has no money and no Dalish would've assisted her, but she had the corrupted _eluvian_ shipped from the ancient elven temple where Tamlen and Aene found it to her flat in the alienage. She resorted to some … unsavory means in an attempt to cleanse it of the corruption and restore it._

"I thought you said that Commander Duncan destroyed it? How can she restore a shattered mirror?" Nathaniel asked.

"If the 'unsavory means' refers to what I think it does, she was trying to restore it through blood magic or demonic aid. I don't understand—Merrill seemed quite level-headed when we met her before Ostagar. The Blight changed all of us, but she sounds like a different person entirely."

_In exchange for her agreeing to destroy the mirror permanently, I told her of the uncorrupted _eluvian_ at Drake's Fall, and will lead her there when the situation with the Architect is resolved. Stroud hasn't heard anything more of the Architect's movements since I returned to Kirkwall, and his Second, in Tantervale, hasn't responded to my letters at all. The First may well be discouraging contact—I have little doubt that he knows I'm back in the Free Marches. _

Eren sighed and put the letter aside. "I wish she had taken one of us with her. I'm not certain how far I trust those odd people she's taken up with."

"Maynee's with her," Nathaniel pointed out.

Eren laughed and relaxed slightly. "Not precisely the sober antidote to crazy I was envisioning, but I take your point. She hardly left her alone long enough in Denerim for Myr to visit the little Warden's room. Mouse is a small army by himself, and Cyrion is better with that bow of his than anyone could possibly expect. I'm sure I'm worrying needlessly."

Nathaniel stood and pulled Eren to her feet, wrapping her in his arms. "Anything more that can't wait until morning?"

"Can't wait? No." Eren kissed him and ran her fingers through Nathaniel's heavy black hair. "Shouldn't wait, perhaps, unless you care to sleep in the kennels tonight." She smiled and kissed him rather seriously.

~oOo~

The rain and thunder finally moved on the next evening, leaving the unseasonable chill behind. Aene had retired early, only to find himself pacing the balcony and watching the guardsmen move in and out of the circles of lamplight below in the courtyard. He had thought to be at least at week at the Vigil, but without Myr to spend time with, he found himself alone with his thoughts far more than he cared. At Soldier's Peak, he could keep himself distracted with the reconstruction and never-ending minutiae of command.

"Warden?"

He turned from his brooding to find the friendly cook's assistant just below. "Marco. It's a cold night to be braving the elements; I'd have thought you'd be holed up somewhere dry with some mulled wine and warm … comradeship."

The younger man laughed and nodded towards the stables. "I thought I'd check on the horses before I turn in. Daren tells me that the lightning and thunder often frighten the young ones, so I'm going to … see if I can help him out." He smiled hopefully. "We could always use an additional set of hands, if you're interested?"

Aene suddenly felt twice as old as the young man and unutterably lonely, despite the offer of companionship. "I'm afraid I'd be poor company tonight. It was an exhausting day, and I'm still tired from the journey," he lied. "Please greet Daren for me?"

"Sure." Marco smiled sympathetically. "You Wardens don't take care of yourselves very well. If you're not off on some other nasty duty right away, you know where to find me." He gave Aene a cheeky salute and loped off towards the outbuildings.

Aene's answering smile faded as he looked to the north, and the remnants of the storm rolling over Amaranthine on its march to the sea.

He wondered if it was raining in Antiva.


	12. Despicable Me

_Many thanks to all who are following along and reviewing! Special thanks to mille libri for her remarkable beta skills._

**Despicable Me**

"Myraene," her father chided, "I have dinner well in hand. We don't want our guest to feel unwelcome."

Cyrion had claimed kitchen duties and left Myr to entertain their dinner guest, Fenris, when she returned home following her interview with the Viscount. Once over her initial reticence, she found herself enjoying their conversation. Fenris proved to be an attentive listener, with many thoughtful questions regarding her stories of the Wardens. After an hour, she excused herself to ask after their meal.

Myr gave her father a steady look. "Are the hares particularly tough, Father, that they require such prolonged cooking?"

"I haven't been hurrying." Cyrion shrugged. "I thought a relaxing evening with your friend would be nice after all of the fighting and politics of your last few weeks."

"Fenris isn't exactly …" Myr frowned and lowered her voice. "Father. I am not seventeen anymore, and Fenris is not Nelaros."

Cyrion turned to the spice box, making a show of searching through the small packets. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Myraene."

"Don't think that I can't sense the scheming just because I can't see your face. After twenty years, I can see through the back of your head."

He turned back to her and sighed. "I'm doing it again."

Myr nodded and kissed his cheek. "I'm not sure I'd know what to do if you stopped."

"I'll finish up quickly, Myraene. Why don't you set the table and tell Fenris more of the Blight, or Vigil's Keep?"

"I'm down to ogre hygiene issues and the biology of werewolves as it is, but I'll think of something." She considered topics as she gathered plates and utensils. "Nothing about Oghren this close to dinner. Wait, I have it. I'll tell him the story of how I rescued Anders from lawful recapture by the Templars, leading to his partnership with Justice and subsequent transformation into the unstable abomination we know today."

Cyrion smiled weakly. "I was going to suggest something about nugs."

~oOo~

"Cyrion was quite correct, Myraene. Your roof affords a commanding view of the southern half of the city and the harbor; an advantageous location."

"If one chooses one's domicile based upon the possibility of invasion by sea, certainly."

It took Myr a moment to identify the low staccato sound as Fenris's never-heard laughter. "I take your meaning, though I don't imagine one survives long as the Commander of the Grey by ignoring the strategic value in most anything."

"True."

Privately, Myr thought her father's suggestion that Fenris might appreciate the panoramic view might have had less to do with defense strategy and more with tactics of a subtler sort. It was a lovely early-summer evening; moonlight reflected on thin wisps of clouds and glimmered on the low swells of the incoming tide. "I wanted to apologize for my father, Fenris. He can be a little heavy-handed on occasion, but he means well."

"For what heavy-handedness are you apologizing, Myraene?"

As he wouldn't meet Myr's gaze, she guessed that he knew very well, but let the matter drop. "Ah. It's not important."

They watched the waves and the ships rolling slowly in their berths for some time. "Who is Nelaros?" Fenris asked.

Myr had always taken ruthless advantage of her superior elven hearing, surrounded by shemlen as she typically found herself. To have picked up her low-voiced comment from the kitchen earlier, Fenris's must be superior to her own. It might have been better to have known this earlier. "Nelaros was my betrothed. He died."

"My condolences. A Warden?"

"A smith." Myr handed Fenris one of her daggers. "I lost its mate in Orzammar."

Fenris nodded approvingly. "Fine work."

"Father has a long history of out-maneuvering me." Myr smiled fondly. "I was … reticent to comply with the traditional alienage betrothal custom. I was almost two years older than the usual age of sixteen when I found out that Father hadn't put aside his duty as I had hoped. As he explained to me, it had simply taken a bit longer for him to find a man whose temperament might complement my own." She laughed. "He might have used other words."

"I would not think it would have taken him long to find a man of sufficient … compliance."

"Your contempt for alienage elves is hardly a secret, Fenris, but tell me this. Would 'compliant' be a word that you would apply to my father?"

"No," Fenris said immediately. "Cyrion is a thoughtful man, but strong in his convictions."

"Then why do you assume that he is the exception to the rule?" Myr continued in a calmer tone. "Let me ask you another question. Was it a simple thing for you—surviving on your own, even prepared as you were with the finest arms training to be found in Tevinter?"

"It was not."

"How less so do you imagine it might be for a young couple with a child to survive away from the humans and their cities, with little or no opportunity for weapons training and no resources?" Myr sighed. "Again, my apologies. It is not my habit to harangue guests in my home—that is a debate that can wait for a better time. And perhaps for more wine."

A ghost of a smile appeared and vanished as quickly. "So your father was successful. Eventually."

"Yes. Nelaros even shared some of my …" Myr balanced the dagger she held on the tip of one finger. "My less socially acceptable talents, shall we say. But he died soon after he arrived in Denerim."

"He ran afoul of the humans, I imagine. You have my sympathies, Myraene."

"Thank you, Fenris." Myr's gaze dropped to her hands, gripping the wooden railing. "As it turned out, mine was not to be a life that lent itself to maintaining a home and family in the best of times."

"Nor mine."

"I don't imagine so," Myr said softly. She gestured for him to precede her back into the house. "I'll walk you out; Mouse looks like he needs to stretch his legs."

Fenris said his goodbyes to Cyrion while Myr stopped to retrieve a book from her rooms. Outside, she handed the leather bound volume to Fenris. "This is a copy of Shartan's journal, the one that Arianni gave me. I thought you might like to read it; I found it fascinating."

"I … thank you, Myraene. But Tevinter slaves are not generally taught to read. There is little need for a personal slave or bodyguard to have that instruction."

"Oh. You are so well-spoken that I just assumed …"

"Knowledge can be gained anywhere, if one is intelligent and resourceful." Fenris frowned.

"Did I say that it could not?"

"No."

"May I finish?" Not waiting for his answer, she continued. "I would be more than pleased to teach you, if you wish to learn? In fact …"

Fenris drew himself up testily. "I do not require your charity, Warden. I manage quite well with the skills I have learned on my own."

"Must you interrupt?" Myr snapped, then relaxed and kneaded her temples. "You do manage to bring out the best in me, Fenris. However, what I was going to suggest was more in the manner of a trade."

"What skills of mine would you possibly be interested in learning?"

"My …" Myr sighed. "_The_ Ferelden Wardens have a somewhat catholic approach to weapons training. We all have our specialties, but we cross-train with every other melee or ranged weapon possible. The only exception for me is the greatsword. Both Aene and Carver declared me untrainable, but you have a very different style that I think I may find more success with. That is my suggested exchange—I will teach you to read and write if you will teach me to fight with the larger weapons."

Myr could see that Fenris was poised to refuse, but the challenge seemed to fan a small spark of interest. "Very well. We shall see if it is as worthwhile as you seem to think—on both sides."

"It can't hurt to try, Fenris."

"That remains to be seen. You will likely adjust your opinion after the initial session." Fenris chuckled drily and walked off into the night.

~oOo~

"Warden-Commander, good morning. Master Hawke is expecting you." Bodahn answered the door at the Amell estate, taking Myr's rain cloak and managing to flip a sheet over the dripping Mouse only seconds before he shook himself vigorously. The huge dog immediately took off towards the rear of the house, where the few barks of greeting quickly trailed off to silence.

"That got quiet rather quickly. Maybe Mouse is teaching Fidget Diamondback? Nothing that I need worry Hawke over, surely." Myr glanced nervously after the mabari before turning back to smile at the dwarf. "Good morning, Bodahn. But you know that I'm not the Comm …"

"Of course, of course. You'll forgive this old dwarf his forgetfulness I hope." He reached for Maynee's cloak, then remembered himself and waited for her to hand it to him. "Lady Brosca, a pleasure as always."

"You can take that 'lady', Bodahn, and cram it …"

"Myr, Maynee." Perren strode purposefully out of the kitchen, followed by Anders, Fenris, Sebastian, and Isabela. "Just on time. I'm sorry that you couldn't make breakfast; Bodahn's kedgeree is not to be missed. We might as well be on our way, though." He spread his arms as if to sweep them out the door ahead of him.

"Did I hear more visitors, dear?" Perren's mother caroled from the hall.

Perren's shoulders drooped slightly before he straightened and turned. "Warden Tabris and Ser Brosca are assisting us in our investigation, Mother. We're off now." He beckoned to the others. "Ladies and gentlemen, no time for dawdling."

Leandra Amell Hawke entered the great room in a swirl of rose silk. "So formal, my darling. Why, it's your friend Myraene; how lovely to see you again, my dear. And Maynee, of course." The older woman bent a faltering smile on the dwarf before turning back to Myr.

"Lady Hawke." Myr nodded pleasantly.

"Oh yes. I hear that so seldom these days; simply everyone in Kirkwall insists on using my family name. It's as if they've forgotten all about dear Malcolm."

"Imagine that." Perren frowned.

"Don't scowl so, dear. You don't want to give yourself frown lines, do you?"

"Mother, we need to …"

"Myraene, my dear." Leandra turned back. "Comtessa Vionne's kitchen boys are from Denerim, do you know them?"

"There are quite a number of families in the alienage. Did she mention their surname?"

"Hm, perhaps. All three are quite lovely boys, though. Perhaps I can arrange introductions?"

"Introductions?" Myr repeated vaguely.

"They all seemed very anxious to meet you, my dear; you're quite famous among your own kind, it seems. Solid, long-term positions they have with the Comte, as well."

"Mother," Perren groaned.

"Do you always wear such … utilitarian clothing, Myraene? You're a lovely girl; you would look like a princess in a pretty pale dress." Leandra smiled and gathered Myr's hair in her hands, holding it up and away from her face. Suddenly stricken, she stepped back and frowned. "Oh, my dear. You probably don't have money for dresses and pretty things. I didn't think—I'm so sorry."

Myr could feel her cheeks and ears burning. "No, please … there's no …" she stammered in embarrassment.

"Very late, must go!" Perren announced loudly, as he held Myr's cloak for her and motioned the rest out the door.

~oOo~

"Myr, I have to apologize on my mother's behalf. The noble families, they …"

"It's perfectly fine, Hawke. Parents can be rather unpredictable creatures. In fact, I was just apologizing for my own …" Myr glanced at Fenris and Sebastian, speaking together quietly, then back down at the stairs to Lowtown. "I mean, it's really fine."

Perren met Isabela's speculative look with one of his own. "Right. Well, thank you for your forbearance, anyway."

"Oh, before I forget." Myr tossed Perren a small bag of sovereigns.

"Why are you giving me money, Myr?"

"I'm returning it, actually." She raised an eyebrow. "Your mother 'accidentally' dropped it in my pocket as we were leaving."

Perren stopped where he was, shoulders slumped and arms at his side. Isabela's mocking laughter followed her skipping progress down the stairs.

The group drifted apart as they reached the market square; Anders to wheedle fabric scraps from the ragman, Maynee and Sebastian to the leatherworkers.

"There's an unlikely duo." Isabela nodded at the pair.

"As a Prince-in-exile, Sebastian is on somewhat of a budget. I told him of my recent visit to Iarwin's stall with Myr and Maynee, and the subsequent … err, readjustment in his previously high prices." Perren winced slightly. "That's an ugly thing to threaten a man with, by the way."

Myr chuckled. "That's one of her favorites. I …" She broke off abruptly, her gaze following the flow of laborers and tradesmen climbing the stairs south of the market district. With a mumbled curse, she hurried off in that direction. Intrigued, Perren signaled to Sebastian and Anders and followed her up the stairs and into the Hanged Man.

Myr's apparent quarry was a handsome, red-haired man at the bar, dressed more for a Hightown salon than a Lowtown dive. He glanced at the door, turned back to the barkeep, then back to Perren and the others. "Myr!" he choked in a low voice and moved to grip one of her arms in both hands. "Please keep calm, Myr. Don't do anything you will regret. He … he hasn't been well. He's not …"

Myr frowned at the man's hands on her arm, which he quickly removed. Aveline and Varric rose from the table near the fire where they had been waiting. Apart from the two and a few regulars, the only other person in the bar was a broad-shouldered man at a back table. He had longish pitch-black hair that hung to his shoulders, and was dressed in worn homespun and leather. He was bent low over his ale, a number of empty tankards in close attendance.

Myr watched the man for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Aveline, Sebastian, please watch that man and make sure he doesn't leave. Get a drink at the bar, whatever." She jerked her head at the door; Perren and the others followed her out.

She rounded on the red-haired man as soon as the door closed. "Teagan, do you know how long I've been searching for him?" she snarled. "How long have you known?"

"Myr, calm down. I just got into town a few days ago." He glanced at Perren and the others. "Perhaps we can discuss this privately?"

"Well, well, well." Isabela smirked knowingly, "I thought there was something familiar about that rummy's face. We seem to have picked up a hot commodity. I do mean that in both senses of the word."

"A commodity that is vulnerable and confused right now, Isabela, if you take my meaning."

"Spoilsport."

"Where are you staying, Teagan? Where are your bodyguards?" Myr asked.

"I left them at the inn."

"Are you mad? You left your bodyguards to traipse around Kirkwall alone?"

"I was trying to keep this quiet. They don't know the real reason I'm here."

"Foolish," Fenris stated. "Of what use are bodyguards that cannot be trusted?"

"A good point." Myr nodded and drew herself up. "But enough talk—we need to get this resolved quickly and quietly. Hawke, please notify Teagan's guards that he will be staying with friends. Mention your noble family name so they don't panic. Varric, will you assist Aveline and Sebastian in moving the gentleman inside to my house? I don't want him to see May or me until we're ready. Teagan, I know it's not what you're used to, but I'd invite you to stay with us, so you can reassure yourself that he's safe."

Some minutes later, Varric led Aveline and Sebastian from the bar, the dark-haired man half-dragged between the two of them. Clearly all but unconscious, he allowed them to guide him away.

Maynee turned on Myr when they were out of sight. "Are you insane or just stupid? Here's an idea. Put that gutless son of a bitch on a boat and ship him back to Denerim. Anora will have him in the deepest, darkest hole she can find before Fergus or any of the others will even know he's back in the country. Out of our lives, end of story."

Teagan cut in. "No! Anora would kill him. Myr, you cannot consider it—just let me take him back to Redcliffe."

"Teagan, May, please trust me," Myr said quietly. "I have my reasons, and I'll try to explain those that I can."

Maynee glared at her for a moment, then turned to follow Aveline and Sebastian, muttering and gesticulating as she went.

"You know, I could just purge the booze from his system, Myr," Anders pointed out. "There's no reason to paint your floors with ale vomit, you know. Easier on him, too."

She thought about it, then shook her head. "Easier in the short term, perhaps. But I think he needs to face the consequences of what he has been doing to himself."

"And what—the puke is part of that?"

Myr smiled humorlessly. "Part of it, yes. Could you draw up a few doses of a mild sedative, though, in case he needs it? Thank you, Anders. Teagan?" The two left in the direction of the alienage.

From Isabela's smirk, Perren was not the only one to notice Fenris's gaze follow the Warden as she walked off on the arm of the handsome arl.

~oOo~

Cyrion was waiting with tea and honey cakes when Myr and Teagan arrived. He shook his head and smiled. "It seems you've found another stray to bring home, Myraene?"

"That does seem to be a pattern of mine, doesn't it, Father?" She turned to their guest. "Teagan, you've met my father, Cyrion, I believe?"

"Of course." The two men exchanged a firm handshake. "Thank you for your assistance with this unusual situation, Ser."

"I'm sure that we can get him settled in with little incident, my lord. It's really no trouble."

Myr smiled and embraced her father. "You're the best liar in the whole world."

~oOo~

Alistair had only brief, disjointed flashes of the previous day: Teagan's voice assuring him of his safety, over and over; a blurry but almost-familiar man with a gentle touch, holding his head as he emptied his stomach; an unfamiliar blond man, forcing him to drink a vile olive-colored concoction.

The front of his shirt was sour-smelling and slightly damp, whether from spilled ale, sweat, vomit, or all three, he couldn't guess. He was well past embarrassment at his situation, that emotion being only the first of many that he overcame to reach this grey space; too drunk to know himself anymore, and too numb to mourn the loss.

A creak of the wooden floor, and he realized that he was not alone. He opened his eyes as the small figure near the door stood and approached. Suddenly panicked, he thought to scramble away and escape, but lacked the strength to even stand. Defeated, he slumped back into the bed. "Why?" he croaked.

"Why am I here, or why are you?" Myr asked in a quiet voice.

"Why didn't you ship me off to Anora, first thing? Why aren't you shrieking at me? Why haven't you …" He closed his eyes again, his small store of energy exhausted.

"So Duncan told you of the recommended sentence for desertion."

"Yes." Despite his best effort, he was helpless to control the tears that leaked out to dampen his hair and the pillow.

"Will you allow me to tell you a story before I pronounce sentence on you, Alistair?"

"If you must," he whispered.

Myr pulled the chair over next to the bed and sat, not looking at him. "Duncan recruited me first, you know; in Denerim. On the way to Highever, I was desperate for anything to talk about, think about, other than what … well, you know some of that. Eventually he told me most of the important things, if only because I threatened to run away to the Dalish while he slept, and he knew I could get out of any bonds that he tried to set on me. He told me the Warden tenets, the secret rituals, why Wardens are needed to end a Blight."

"He told me all of that."

"No. He didn't tell you everything." Myr raised her hand. "Please let me get through what I have to say. I haven't told the whole story to anyone, Alistair, not even Aene." At his reluctant nod, she continued. "Did you ever wonder why it took so long to defeat Dumat? Why the first Blight took so long to resolve? Besides the obvious fact that the first Wardens didn't know what they were doing, of course."

"It's as good an answer as any other."

"When an archdemon dies, the soul of the corrupted old god is drawn to the nearest tainted creature, and if that creature is a darkspawn, it fills the soulless husk; the archdemon is reborn."

"And if that tainted creature is a Warden?" Alistair whispered, aghast.

"The one body cannot hold both souls; everything that the Warden was, is destroyed."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell anyone, Alistair, because I planned to be that one. After Nelaros died, after Imriel, it took so long to …" She shook her head. "Anyway. It was at the Landsmeet, at that one moment, that I realized that perhaps I didn't need to die, that there might be a second option."

"So you …"

"I sentenced a living person, a living soul, to destruction. And I will live with that decision for the rest of my life. If it were just Eamon, or hiring Zevran to assassinate us … forgive me, Alistair, but even Ostagar. If that was the extent of it, I could have let you kill him and been done with it. But Valendrian, Taeodor, Nessa, all of the others, sold into unending pain and degradation. I wanted him to suffer for each and every one."

"That's understandable, I would think."

Myr stood and started pacing the length of the small room. "It's what we do, you know? The end result justifies whatever dark choices we must make to see it happen. Every one of us, every day of our lives, every other concern is secondary to the defeat of the darkspawn. As a Warden, I could almost understand why Loghain made the choices he did, though I could never have forgiven him for them." Myr stopped pacing and looked directly at Alistair for the first time. "As I could not forgive myself for taking the knowledge and informed choice out of your hands; I was wrong, Alistair, terribly wrong, and it cost you more than anyone. I'm so sorry."

Alistair gaped at her. "Myr, I …"

"I'm not the Warden-Commander any longer, and it's not for me to pass sentence. If it were, it would be for you to make yourself healthy again, rejoin the Wardens, and join me in the task that brought us north to the Marches." She met his dumbfounded gaze with brimming eyes. "And if you can ever find it in your heart, Alistair, please forgive me."


	13. Seems Like Old Times

_Many thanks to everyone reading, particularly those taking time to review—the feedback is tremendously appreciated! Special thanks to mille libri for her support and excellent beta skills._

**Seems Like Old Times**

Maynee made her way silently through the sitting room she shared with Myr, easing open her friend's bedroom door. She was surprised that the rattle of the loose tumblers hadn't woken the elf, but a glance at the bed made the reason clear. Drenched with sweat and tangled in bedding, Myr jerked and twisted in her sleep as if in torment.

Maynee eased a knife from beneath the mattress ticking; as she reached for the second under the pillow, Myr went rigid and drew in a lungful of air, scrabbling for the blades. Maynee clamped her hand over the elf's mouth and wrestled her flat. "You're home, you're safe." After repeated assurances, Myr finally relaxed enough for Maynee to release her. "Bad one?"

Myr nodded and sat up, pulling the blanket around her trembling shoulders. "Architect."

Maynee lit a candle, and dumped a bundle of worn leathers and a pair of boots on the bed. "How long have you been dreaming of him?"

"You know I have all along, May." Myr wouldn't meet her gaze.

"And?"

"And … the dreams have been a little worse since we returned to the Free Marches, yes, but nothing I can't deal with." Myr waved off the question and started dressing. "Are we going somewhere?"

"We're going to go kill some things, then we're going to come back here and you're going to tell me all about these dreams of tall, grey, and droopy you've been having."

"May …"

"Shut it. Work now, yell later." Maynee waited while Myr left a brief, innocuous note for Cyrion and Alistair, then led her out into the moonlit alienage.

"I imagine this is a social call of some kind?" Myr whispered as she followed Maynee through the back alleys of Lowtown. The district was far from empty even well before dawn, but they easily avoided the loud and largely inebriated citizens. "I hope we'll be welcomed without a gift for the hostess."

"Host," Maynee corrected; her lip curling slightly. "For many things, no doubt." She grinned suddenly and produced a slim, gleaming poniard from under her armor. "But I wouldn't dream of dropping in on Kanky without a gift. I call it 'Die, Maggot'."

"You always know just what to bring. But you don't think that even the two of us might have a little difficulty with Kanky's entire Carta cell?"

"I've arranged for a bit of assistance. Coterie assistance."

"Interesting help." Myr smirked. "You know, your eyes twinkle so prettily when you're plotting someone's demise, May."

They stopped to let a pair of guardsmen pass, then hurried up the stairs towards Hightown. "Where are we …" Myr fell silent at a brusque gesture from her partner, who had stopped at a switchback halfway up. Scrambling over the barrier, Maynee edged along a narrow stone outcropping to a large sewer outfall and disappeared inside. Swearing silently, Myr followed.

If Myr had any thought that she could have opened her mouth without retching, she would have begged Maynee to find another way. Instead, she followed the dwarf as silently as the tarry sludge would allow, trying to breathe shallowly. The dim lights of Lowtown quickly disappeared. Pulling an old glove onto one hand and taking Myr's wrist in her other, Maynee pulled her onward, running her protected fingers along one wall of the tunnel.

After a quarter-hour and several turns, Maynee came to a stop, and released Myr's wrist. "Follow," she whispered.

Myr reached out in Maynee's direction, recoiling from the cold, spongy mass that met her fingers before they closed on the iron ladder bolted to the wall. She followed Maynee up and through the trap door at the top. Light filtered from both ends of the narrow access tunnel Myr found herself in; she guessed that they were just outside Darktown. She accepted one of the rags that Maynee pulled from her pocket and wiped the worst of the clinging filth from her boots before following her friend carefully and silently down the tunnel.

Maynee stopped at an intersection with one of the many mineshafts that radiated out from the central hub of Darktown. The shaft met one of the larger open areas, a series of platforms Myr remembered as littered with heavy mine equipment and scattered nests of refugees.

"Not quite time," Maynee breathed. Myr carefully peered around the corner. A group of Carta dwarves kept a tense watch—all but one bearded, bald dwarf who lounged against a mine cart, trimming his nails with his belt knife. Several minutes passed before Myr heard others approaching.

"Be ready," Maynee whispered, hands on her daggers.

A nervous human in grey leathers approached the lounging dwarf, followed by an elf with a small pack. Myr couldn't make out the conversation, though the exchange of contraband was clear enough. At one point the elf opened his pack to show the dwarf its shiny contents; a few more tense words, and several things happened at once.

The human reached for his sword, only to sprout crossbow bolts in leg and shoulder. Before he could fall, the dwarf leader's hand flicked out once, opening the man's belly. With a sharp gesture, the elven servant vanished, only to reappear behind a group of 'refugees' spilling down the main stairs, pulling daggers and short swords from hidden sheaths. Retrieving a plain staff from a pile of refuse, the elf sent twisting gouts of flame at the dwarves. A smaller group of mixed elves and humans charged up from the lower level, cutting off the dwarves' escape route.

"Now?"

"Now." Maynee grinned darkly and made directly for the Carta leader. A few feet from him, she dove forward, rolled, and rose at his side. "Miss me, sweetheart?" She lashed out at his thick neck with her right hand, and his belly with her left. He blocked the first blow and jerked back from the second, but not in time to prevent the dagger from piercing the thick leather. Blood welled from the rent in the armor.

"If it isn't the whore's ass-faced sister." Kanky kicked out at Maynee. She flinched away, but the steel-tipped boot connected solidly with her thigh. "The one who couldn't even manage to die in the Provings like she was supposed to."

Myr rolled under a wild ax swing from a Carta dwarf and fouled her attacker's legs with hers, sending him tumbling to the floor. His bellow of rage ended in a gurgle as he took an arrow from a hidden archer. Keeping an eye on Maynee and Kanky, she sprinted after a dwarf closing on the mage.

The two old enemies traded blows and profanity while the gang war raged around them. Two lucky hits from Kanky opened bloody gashes on Maynee's forearm and hip, but his right ear hung nearly severed, and he limped from a deep stab wound to the thigh. Maynee's left hand flashed up at Kanky's face; he reared back, and she caught him in the groin with a well-aimed boot.

Kanky roared and stumbled back, but kept his weapons at guard. Maynee slipped the poniard from under her armor and grinned at him, holding it out and turning it to catch the torchlight. "This is for you, Kanky. I call it—"A volley of lightning from the elven mage caught the Carta boss full in the back, throwing him forward onto Maynee and knocking both to the floor. She pushed at the wet, twitching weight, and the dead dwarf rolled off of her, the slim blade lodged in his chest.

"You …" Maynee turned a look of stunned rage on the elf. "Do you know how long I've waited to ... I wasn't done killing him yet!" she bellowed.

"Your face was the last thing he saw, May—that has to count for something." Myr pulled the poniard from the dead dwarf and cleaned it, offering it to her friend.

"We've been trying to catch that bastard in the open for two years. Damned suspicious dwarves." One of the disguised Coterie members stepped forward. He made a rude gesture at the corpse, then nodded at the pack that the mage had carried. "Your price, Brosca."

Myr pointed at the man who had initially approached Kanky. "And him? Not a willing sacrifice, I would imagine."

"An initiate." The man shrugged. "We have a rigorous training program. He failed."

The Coterie members faded back into Darktown by twos and threes after the Carta dwarves were stripped of everything useful. Maynee stood looking down at Kanky for a moment, then kicked him hard in the stomach. "Let's go."

Boarding the lift for Hightown, they made their silent way down the Great Stairs to Lowtown, then the Docks. Maynee led Myr to a deserted pier; from a pile of coiled rope, she pulled a sack with a clean change of clothes, rags, and boots.

Myr sighed with relief, pulling off the ruined clothing and cleaning off the worst of the filth. Maynee did likewise, quietly sinking the stolen armor and both pairs of boots into the water. "They were good boots, and didn't deserve to end their days covered in shit and Kanky's crotch stink."

Myr laughed. "You're in a whimsical mood for a woman painted in blood and worse."

"There are a dozen less Carta scum littering this stone-forsaken city, Kanky Hammertoe died writhing in filth, and I've been paid well for doing something I've dreamt of for three years. I've had worse nights."

Myr chuckled softly. "As long as you're in such a good mood, I want to ask you something."

"Just like you to ruin the post-slaughter glow." Maynee picked at the blood crusting her dark braids. "You want me to lay off the coward."

"I'm asking you to try to leave your grievance with Alistair in the past, yes. You don't know the whole …"

"Don't you tell me what I know and don't," Maynee cut Myr off angrily. "I knew all about that grand gesture of sacrifice you had planned—and the reason for it—so did Aene and Zevran. Apart from the coward, the only ones who probably didn't know were the Qunari and the fossil."

Myr gaped at her friend. "How …"

"You talk in your sleep, idiot," Maynee growled. "When you're dreaming of darkspawn, anyway. I've known since before the Landsmeet."

"Oh," Myr said vaguely. "I can't imagine why Eren or Aene or Denel didn't say something."

"We were half-convinced that if you knew we knew, you'd leave and try to get to the Archdemon on your own. That kind of stupid, half-assed behavior is right up your alley."

Myr shook her head slowly. "I … guess I don't know how I feel about that. But that doesn't change the fact that Alistair didn't know. He didn't have time to prepare, didn't have time to think about Loghain being put to the Joining, or to come to terms with the person he considered Duncan's murderer being 'rewarded' by becoming a Grey Warden."

"Rewarded," Maynee scoffed. "Not just a coward, but a lackwit. At least you weren't given a choice."

"No," Myr said quietly. "And if it had been Duncan that rescued you from that Carta cell, you wouldn't have been given one, either."

"Do you think he could have stopped me if I chose to leave after hearing that garbage? Starving in that cell, I swore that no one was ever going to force me to do anything against my will again. Ever."

Myr shuddered, willing away the sudden image of Ser Jory, splayed on the floor of the old temple at Ostagar. "I understand that. But May, I need him," Myr pressed. "And I need him healthy. He's not going to get healthy surrounded by people that can't let him get past his mistakes. I'm not asking you to be nice or charitable or even neutral towards him. All I'm asking is that you try to leave the past in the past."

Maynee narrowed her eyes. "Very well—if you'll do the same. Listening to you chastise yourself for every real or imagined mistake in the last three years makes me want to puke. No wonder you're as flat as a board with all of that relentless breast-beating."

"I will try my best." Myr sighed and gazed at her friend. "We should slaughter old enemies of yours every day—you're positively ebullient."

"If you think the flattery will get you out of telling me about your Architect dreams, you're crazier than Sandal."

"Dammit."

~oOo~

"This is not working."

Alistair winced. "I'll say—I think you're scrubbing bare bone now." He twitched his soapy, grey-black head out from under Myr's hands.

"What did you use for hair dye—boot black?" A glance at his contrite face told Myr that her guess was correct. She rinsed the soap out of Alistair's hair and dried her chapped hands. "I thought so. Your head smells like rancid tallow."

"At least the rest of me doesn't anymore, thanks to several thousand gallons of water and some new clothes. It feels nice to be clean." Alistair smiled at Cyrion as he entered the kitchen followed by Maynee, both carrying baskets filled with vegetables, bread, and fish. "As nice as eating your excellent cooking, Cyrion. It's easy to see who taught Myr what she knows. Although it can't be easy with another Warden in the house. How about if I help cook tonight?"

"Sweet Maker, n—"

"Thank you for the offer, Alistair," Cyrion spoke over Myr's objection. "I would appreciate the assistance and the company."

"In that case, I'll be at the Hanged Man." Maynee turned and left the kitchen. "Out of my way, Anders," she snapped as the front door opened and slammed shut.

"I'd ask what burr got under May's blanket, but I think her blanket is made of burrs." Anders left his pack on the table and knelt next to Alistair. "You look a bit better—well, not your hair. That looks like the very devil."

"Why are we trying to get the black out of it, anyway?" Alistair turned back to Myr. "Well, besides the whole rotten meat thing. Won't it make it that much easier for Anora's spies to notice me?"

"It doesn't matter if they do. I already sent a courier with a letter for her, telling her you were here."

"You what?!"

"I also told Aene and Nathaniel, of course, and Teagan will inform Fergus and Wulff."

"Myr, I … I don't understand."

"Alistair, there is no way that we can keep knowledge of your whereabouts secret. With the people that Anora has in Kirkwall, my message might not even be the first she receives. If we tried to hide you, it would appear that we were intriguing against her." Myr shrugged. "It's not a perfect solution, but if secrecy is out, then what is left to us is openness."

"I suppose you're right," Alistair agreed reluctantly.

"There's conviction for you." Anders gestured at Alistair's head. "You know, I could leach the dye out of your hair easily."

"I have hair left? I thought Myr scrubbed it all off."

"A few strands, here and there." Anders grinned slyly. "Now—you want to stay with the natural color, or try something a little more interesting?"

Alistair looked horrified and clutched at his tarry hair.

"Oh, relax. Myr, hold that pail under his head, would you?" Anders murmured a few short phrases, and the blacking ran cleanly out of the other Warden's hair into the bucket.

Alistair sniffed a hank of his clean, blond hair. "Oo, springtime fresh."

"All part of the service!" Anders turned serious. "How are you feeling?"

"You remember the morning after your Joining? How would you feel about repeating it every day for a week?"

Anders closed his eyes and held his glowing hands outspread for a few moments, shrugged, and took a seat at the table. "About as well as can be expected. Some fever and tremors, then?"

"You forgot the weakness and sweating; it's been brilliant. I suppose there has to be some downside to the Oghren meal plan. What is old squat and gamy up to these days, anyway?" Alistair's smirk faded at the look exchanged by Myr and Anders. "He isn't..."

"I apologize, Alistair," Myr said. "It hadn't occurred to me that you didn't know. I tend to forget that the tales and songs we heard over and over every time we were in Denerim or Amaranthine wouldn't have traveled to the 'Marches or beyond. Oghren was killed at Drake's Fall. I'm sorry."

"Well, I can't say that we were the closest of friends, but when you go through what we did together …" Alistair shook his head slightly. "He always seemed indestructible."

Myr accepted a cup of tea from Cyrion. "Thank you, Father". He poured for the other men and went back to chopping carrots. "I've only told you a little of the Architect so far. When we met him for the second time at Drake's Fall, he was accompanied by three women. Acolytes, I've always thought of them. Velanna and Seranni were Dalish sisters, and Utha you may have read about in connection with your father's time in the Deep Roads."

"The dwarf—the Warden, right?"

Myr nodded. "I think that the Architect truly believed that he, with the example of Utha at his side, could sway us to join him. Or if he could not convince us, at least … make use of us."

"Make use of you?" Alistair repeated. "That doesn't sound healthy."

"There is a great deal that you will need to know about the Architect and his proposal. But—"

Cyrion dried his hands and turned towards the door. "You're staying for dinner, aren't you, Anders? I think I'll get another loaf of bread before Elece runs out."

"You don't have to leave, Father." Myr sighed. "I've tried to keep the Warden secrets as I've been able, even those that I don't feel should be kept. But you and May are in danger because of us and what we're doing. I won't have you unaware of the danger." She reached and took Cyrion's hand for a moment. "And if there are two people who can be trusted implicitly with otherwise Warden-only information, it's the two of you. Anders? Alistair?"

Both men seemed surprised to be consulted, but readily agreed.

Myr stood. "After dinner, I think—this will take time. I'll go pick up more bread and maybe something for afters. Elece might have some tarts left—horror always goes down better with tarts."

"Would you mind if I tagged along, Myr?" Anders asked. "I'd like to talk to you about something."

Myr blinked in surprise, but nodded. "Very well. Father, we'll be back shortly."

"Take your time; Alistair and I will finish up with dinner. Would you mind fetching some water from the well in the cellar?" Cyrion smiled at the young man. "Then you can help me with the vegetables and fish."

Myr hesitated at the door after Alistair left the kitchen. "I, um, just so you're aware, Father. Alistair has some issues with making food that is, well, food. We didn't typically let him cook."

"So he was unteachable? You spent some time with him, I assume—tried to pass on some of what you learned from me?"

"Well, I … that is to say, we didn't really …"

"I see."

"There was a Blight on, if you'll remember. I did pretty well with that, you know." She frowned. "Tell him, Anders."

The tall mage wouldn't meet her eyes. "I wasn't with you then, Myr. Besides, if there was one thing that I learned in my excursions away from the Tower, it is that getting between fathers and their daughters only leads to tears and pitchforks."

"I'm sure you did your best, Myraene," Cyrion said as he turned back to the meal, his eyes glinting with suppressed humor.

Myr opened her mouth to reply, reconsidered, and made for the door.

~oOo~

Despite his request to speak with her privately, Anders was clearly hesitant about broaching his subject. He followed Myr through the Lowtown market, nervously grooming his feathers and clearing his throat. Halfway back to the alienage, he finally motioned her into a deserted alley near the bridge to the Docks.

"Look Myr, I know you're still very angry about what happened in Amaranthine."

Myr waited for him to continue. "Go on," she said finally.

Anders flushed at the implicit rebuke. "When will you accept that I was only doing what I thought was right?"

"I do accept that, in fact."

"Then …"

"Let me ask you a question," Myr said calmly. "Do you still think that what you did was right, given the consequences?"

Anders met her gaze for a moment before looking away.

"Let me ask you a second question. How often do you truly consider all of the alternatives to a given action before you make it?"

"Do you think that we can always predict the outcome of our actions?" Anders demanded. "My heart told me it was the right one."

"This wasn't a matter of picking out pastries, Anders." She brandished the box of sweets at him. "For decisions of that magnitude, I'll favor my brain over my heart every time."

Anders' eyes narrowed. "I don't think even you believe that, Myr—I certainly don't. But that wasn't really what I wanted to talk to you about." He nodded at the towering prison across the straits. "Do you know anything about how the Gallows is being run?"

"I know that there are concerns, some of which seem plausible, others not."

"I can imagine the stories you've heard, and the reality is far worse. They are tranquilizing harrowed mages for the most minor of transgressions, and even the ones who are still intact are forced to live like convicts; beaten, raped …"

"Anders," Myr lowered her voice still further. "If you have evidence to support those charges, you need to get it to the Grand Cleric. She seems like a decent woman, and the only person in the city who has any influence on Meredith."

"She's a puppet—no better than Dumar." Anders spat in disgust. "She could do so much for the mages—force Meredith to address the abuses and give the mages more freedom—but she doesn't. 'Trust in the Maker, He moves in His own time.' That's just an excuse for people who don't wish to deal with situations of their own making."

Myr gave Anders a significant look.

"Dammit, Myr, we're not talking about me anymore. Look, Elthina is the one that appointed Meredith Knight-Commander, and …" He threw his hands up in the air.

"Anders."

He nodded and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Some of the Templars are more dangerous that you can possibly imagine, Myr. There is one, Ser Alrik. He is trying to garner support for a plan to tranquilize every mage in the Free Marches, harrowed or not, regardless of age or history."

Myr blanched. "Anders, that's …"

"Crazy? Monstrous? At the very least."

"I would need to see evidence of that, I think," she said carefully.

"I have testimony from several mages, but nothing tangible … yet. That is what I'm hoping you can help with, Myr." Anders ran his fingers through his hair and started to pace. "I know a way into the Templar hall, and I have a good idea of which cell is Alrik's. You're better at breaking and entering than anyone I've seen, and you don't have magic that the Templars can sniff out."

"You're insane." Myr sputtered. "You want me to break into the Gallows, pilfer notes from a Templar's cell, and escape, all without being seen?"

"You used to break into the palace, Myr! Are you really afraid of getting caught, or does the thought of every mage on Thedas being turned into a vegetable not bother you?" Anders' brown eyes bled into bright blue.

Myr took a step back in alarm. "How dare you, Anders. You know how much I tried to do for the Tower, how much I put on the line for you personally and for the other Circle mages."

Anders' eyes glowed for a moment longer, then he closed them and slumped against the near alley wall. "I just … I can't stand apart, knowing what they are enduring and not trying to do something about it."

"You know my history, Anders—what happened to me and to dozens of other women and men in the alienage," Myr said quietly. "Do you think that I wouldn't try to help people in those kinds of circumstances?"

"Of course. I'm sorry, Myr."

"I have invitations from both the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander to pay a visit," Myr said. "I'll try to find out what I can without compromising either of us, or the mages. Fair enough for a start?"

Anders nodded reluctantly. "For a start."

~oOo~

Myr woke well before dawn the next day. She lit a candle and gazed at her reflection in the mirror over the basin. Eyes wide and staring, they looked sunken and bruised against her sweaty, pale skin. She dampened a cloth and washed up, then dressed; there wouldn't be any more sleep that morning.

She found Alistair in the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hands. "It's just like old times, Myr—the sweat, the terrible dreams, sharing coffee and halitosis around the fire while the sensible people sleep."

"I'm sure that's why the First is so adamant about keeping the Warden secrets." Myr smiled wanly. "I can't imagine anyone not wanting to Join if they knew more of the fabulous lifestyle."

"We'd be overrun with volunteers." Alistair's answering grin faded.

"How are you feeling apart from the nightmares?"

"Like there isn't anything that I wouldn't sell for a drink." His eyes met hers briefly, then drifted back to the mug in his hands. "Some days are better than others. Anders' potions help with the fever and agitation and the sleeplessness." He shuddered. "Although if this is the trade-off …"

"I hadn't realized you'd started having the dreams again."

"Twice now, in the week since …" Alistair chuckled awkwardly. "I think mind-numbing drunkenness must provide a cushion against the nightmares."

"Oghren never did seem to have the issues that the rest of us did."

He sobered. "The tall emissary, the one with those thin fingers and the mask and … all. The Architect. You said he has your blood?"

"Also that of Eren, Anders, and Sigrun. But he seemed to have a special interest in me, what it was that made me the Warden-Commander, as if it were something borne in the blood, like darkspawn alphas and emissaries." Myr took a shuddering breath and sipped at her cooling coffee. "He experimented on me—my pain thresholds and resistance to magic. It was effective. I think … I'm _sure_ that I would have broken and joined him eventually, if the others hadn't freed themselves and come for me."

Alistair looked vaguely nauseous. "You didn't go into such detail the other evening."

"Maybe I should have, but …"

Myr scrambled to her feet at a sound from the doorway. Cyrion wore a horrified expression; he carefully set the bag of flour he carried on the worktable and bowed his head, still turned away from them. "Everything I learn about the Wardens is more terrifying than the last," he whispered. "If I had it in my power, Myraene, I'd take you far from here—somewhere remote, where there are no Deep Roads or darkspawn or Architects."

"Father, I never meant for you to …"

Cyrion turned and embraced her tightly. "Do you think that my imaginings are so much easier to bear? I fear for you every moment that you're on a mission."

"I can't really argue that I give you more cause for fear than most daughters do their fathers." Myr wiped her eyes and stepped back.

"Or most nephews their uncles," Teagan said softly from the doorway. He raised his hand when Alistair would have spoken. "My ship sails today. I must get back to Redcliffe; I would stay if I could."

Alistair rose and gripped Teagan's wrist. "Thank you, Uncle, for everything."

"Despite your duty, despite the importance of finding and destroying this 'Architect', I'm still going to ask you one last time to return to Ferelden with me, Alistair. With Eamon exiled, you're the only family I have left. As an Arl, I made an oath to support the Wardens to my fullest ability, but I'm your uncle first." He shrugged and smiled affectionately. "Sort of."

"I can't leave the Wardens now that I've found them again, Teagan. But we'll be back once this is all done, or I hope we will."

Teagan stepped back and gazed at his nephew. "The longer hair suits you, Alistair; you remind me of Maric. He'd be so proud of you, my boy."

Alistair smiled wistfully. "Maybe not yet, Uncle, but I'm working on it."


	14. On hold temporarily

'Intemperance' will be on hold for several months. My family is dealing with a serious illness, and I need to devote the lion's share of my energy to that. I'm very committed to going forward with and finishing Myr's story, but I can't maintain even my normal somewhat glacial posting schedule right now. Thanks to every one of you who are reading and keeping up, and I will do my very best to make up for this gap in a few months with more adventures from Maynee, Myr, Perren, Aene, and the rest of my odd collection of Wardens, Hawkes, and assorted eccentrics. Thank you for your understanding!


End file.
